Hope springs eternally
by JennyWren
Summary: Sequel of The heir. Years after the fire, we join the story of Christine, Erik and Raoul again. We have two new babies, two new houses... and a new Angel?
1. Chapter One

**Author's note:** 1) This is the sequal to my story "The heir". Although it is possible to read it without having read "The heir" first, I do not recommend it. It's much more enjoyable with a little background knowledge.

2) As already stated in "The heir", hope is the most cruel of human emotions. It causes our best actions... and our most desperate ones. Join me in the whirlwind of emotions that will make this story extraordinary. Watch Christine, Erik and Raoul in their struggle to create and destroy hope for each other and themselves. Watch them try to find a new life or else get back the old one. And never forget the children, who are as extraordinary as their parents.

**Dedication:** I dedicate this chapter to my own personal Gilles, who has been my faithful companion for the last fifteen years, and to all the other cuddly animals out there. Thanks for never letting us down.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters from "The Phantom of the Opera". They belong to Gaston Leroux / Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Hope springs eternally **

**Chapter One**

**November 5****th**** 1895: **_Philippe_

I stared at the parcel with my mouth hanging slightly open, hardly daring to believe my eyes. Such a big parcel, all for me!

"Where does it come from?" I asked Marie, who had just put it down in front of the door to my room.

"A delivery boy brought it a few minutes ago, together with a parcel for your sister and a bouquet of flowers for your mother," the maid explained, smiling down at me. "Such beautiful flowers in November! They must have cost your father a fortune. A lovely man, really…"

She turned around and walked down the corridor, still muttering about Papa. It was funny: All the servants liked him, even though most of them hardly knew him. He only came here every few weeks to talk to Maman, and he never stayed long. At least once a week, however, he sent a coach to fetch Antoinette and me, and then we did nice things together. He also gave us many presents, even if it wasn't our birthday or Christmas. But then, the servants didn't get any presents from him or did nice things with him, so I couldn't understand why they liked him so much. They couldn't know what a wonderful Papa he was.

This parcel was larger than most he had given me, so it probably didn't contain the usual books. Papa knew how much I liked reading because I had told him myself. I had also read to him many times, and he said that he was very proud of me. Yet even though the parcel was so big that twenty books would have fitted into it, it wasn't very heavy. I could pick it up from the floor and carry it to the table without problems.

I looked at the parcel excitedly and was on the verge of ripping open the brown paper covering it when I remembered something Uncle Erik had taught me. He had always said that it was important to ´respect things´. I wasn't sure what he meant by it, but it had something to do with not ripping open presents and not letting books lie on the floor.

It was strange that Uncle Erik was still here somehow, even though he had not been here in person for a long time. Three of my birthdays had passed without him, though he had sent large parcels with curious objects from all over the world. I only wished he'd come himself instead of sending parcels, no matter how many nice things were in them.

Suddenly I felt very miserable. I missed Uncle Erik so much. I had new teachers, one who talked and talked about books and maths and one who taught me how to play the piano and read music, but Uncle Erik had been much better. With him, learning had been interesting, not boring. I still liked doing the tasks he set me much better than the ones the teachers gave me.

Going to the opera was what I liked best of all. Maman or Aunt Antoinette usually came with me, but I didn't need much help. I knew how to do things much better than them, because I was the only one Uncle Erik had taught. I knew how to frighten chorus girls and make stagehands work more quickly. It was very amusing to watch…

…but it would have been even more amusing if Uncle Erik had been with me. Even though Maman laughed at my jokes every now and then, I thought I sometimes saw her looking at me in a very strange way. Sometimes I also saw her wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. I knew she missed Uncle Erik as well.

Hoping it would make all the sad thoughts go away, I started opening the parcel at last. I removed the brown ribbon with my scissors, nearly, but only nearly, removing the top of my right thumb with it. Then I peeled away the wrapping paper, revealing a plain brown box. A note was attached to the top.

My darling Philippe, I hope you'll like this present of mine. Perhaps you'll remember it. I was having tea with the Colettes the other day, and gave it to me. You seem to have left it at their house a few weeks before the fire, and she forgot about it. Now she found it on the attic and wanted to give it back to you. Maybe you'll still like it. Don't forget me. Your father, Raoul de Chagny.

A slightly mouldy smell was coming from the box, like the potatoes Larisse fetched from the cellar. My heart was beating quickly. I knew what was in the box. It could only be one thing. Hastily I opened the lid and looked inside. As I caught a glimpse of brown, I knew I had been right.

"Gilles!" I exclaimed, taking him out of the box and pressing him against my chest. Then I held him at arm's length to look at him. "You haven't changed at all," I told him, the way I had often heard Maman and Aunt Meg tell the ladies who came to tea. It was true: Gilles had the same brown fur, the same soft ears and paws and the same kind smile on his face that made him such a wonderful bear. Only his smell had changed a little, but I was sure that after a few nights' sleep in my bed, everything would be all right again.

I waited a few moments for Gilles' reply, then I answered:

"Yes, I know I've changed a lot. I'm eight years old now. That's almost as old as Antoinette was when you last saw her. She's twelve now (I had to tell Gilles because he sometimes had problems with counting.), and she can still be really awful, but she's not at home very often. When she's not at her teacher's house, she's at the opera. She's still too young to be a real dancer, but she's allowed to practice with the youngest girls and watch the others. Now that we're living with Aunt Meg, who's always on Antoinette's side, Maman couldn't have said no. Antoinette simply annoyed her till she agreed."

There was something questioning about Gilles' face, and he gave me a frown.

"Oh!" I made. "Of course! You want to know why we're living here now, don't you? Well, let me tell you."

I took Gilles in my arms, and we settled down on my bed. I had learned from Uncle Erik that good stories were never told in a rush. They needed time to unfold. Of course no one could tell stories as well as Uncle Erik himself, but I doubted Gilles would mind. He had heard a lot of stories from me, stories I had made up myself and stories I had heard from Uncle Erik. He had always listened patiently.

"A few weeks after I left you at the Colettes' house – and I'm very sorry about that – there was a fire at home," I started, shivering slightly. Maman had always said I should talk about the fire whenever I felt like it, but it had been a while since the last time I had done so. Everyone here already knew the story, so there had been no need to tell it. "It was a huge fire. It burned down the whole house. Well, not the whole house. Maman and Papa could go in afterwards and saved a few things. But most of it is gone… all the things from my room as well."

I paused for a while, giving Gilles time to take in the news that so many of his friends were dead. Even after two and a half years, I still felt very sorry for them. The book with stories Uncle Erik had given me had been the only thing I had been able to save myself.

"There were bad men, too, who had set the house on fire," I went on. "But Uncle Erik and Papa fought them, and now they're all locked up in prison. They can't come here. So you don't have to worry."

Gilles gave a sigh of relief.

"I still haven't told you why we're here," I reminded myself. Uncle Erik had also taught me that it was bad to interrupt a story in the middle, so I went on quickly. "Well, Aunt Meg took us in after the fire. Then she told us that she was going to have a baby, and Maman decided to stay here with us and help her. But Papa couldn't stay as well because he had to go on working. So he's living in his own house now."

I sighed as well, though I wasn't relieved at all. I was sad.

"I miss him," I muttered. "Maman and Papa used to say that we'd move back in together once the baby was born, but when Aunt Meg had twins, Maman said we had to stay longer because two babies were too much work for one person, and Aunt Antoinette couldn't help all the time. I think there's something they're not telling me, though. They often talk in whispers. Antoinette doesn't know the secret either, although she usually acts as if she knew everything."

Gilles threw me a sympathetic glance, and I smiled at him. It was so good to have someone who was on my side again.

"And Uncle Erik isn't here either," I went on. "He's travelling around the world. He sends letters every few weeks, and sometimes we can write him as well, but he hasn't come back once, even though he promised. It's so boring here without Papa and him. Everyone is looking at Clarille and Michel all the time… Would you like to see them as well?" I asked, remembering that all the people who came to visit us wanted to see the babies. Why should Gilles be different? Besides, they could be rather sweet, as long as they weren't screaming.

Gilles told me that he wanted to see them if I didn't mind, so we got up from the bed. Yet we hadn't even reached the door when it was opened from outside.

"Maman!" I said cheerfully. "Look who has come back to me!"

I lifted Gilles into the air, but Maman barely looked at him. She beamed down at me, waving a letter.

"It's from your Uncle Erik," she told me excitedly. "He's coming back, Philippe! He's coming back!"


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**November 5****th**** 1895:**_ Antoinette_

Aunt Antoinette's slightly shrill voice put an abrupt end to whatever thoughts I had had before, and I looked up at her.

"No, no, no!" she called, getting up from her chair and striding across the stage to the chorus girls. "How many times do I have to tell you? Listen to the music! It gives you the rhythm you need. One – two – three – four. At two, you lift your right arm, and at threee, you start. We'll have to do it again."

The pianist started playing again, but this time, Aunt Antoinette stayed close to the dancers instead of sitting down next to me. For a while, I continued watching, but I didn't concentrate on what I was seeing. I would have never told anyone, least of all Aunt Antoinette or Aunt Meg, but watching ballet like this was a little boring. I preferred dancing myself, or at least watching the chorus girls practice a scene from an opera. Seeing the colourful costumes and hearing the music of an entire orchestra reminded me of the reasons why I wanted to become a dancer myself.

Today, however, was just an ordinary rehearsal for the chorus girls. They were working on some very basic steps, which, according to Aunt Antoinette, were not as good as they should have been in a professional corps de ballet. She had criticised those steps many times in my own lessons, so I knew they were important. Still, watching other dancers struggle with them wasn't very interesting.

But then, no matter how boring it was here, it certainly was better than being at home. It still felt strange to think of the house of Aunt Meg and Uncle Jean as home. Home had been our old house. And home had been where both Maman and Papa had lived.

I sighed. My teacher always said that I was an intelligent girl. So why couldn't I work out what was going on between Maman and Papa? All I knew for certain was that there was _something_ going on, and it wasn't good. Maman and Papa hardly talked to each other. Sometimes they seemed to try, sending Philippe and me to our rooms and sitting down in the living room with cups of tea. But when I had once sneaked downstairs and peered through the keyhole, I had seen them sitting there, staring in opposite directions, not speaking at all.

Something was wrong, and I couldn't help thinking that it could have to do with Uncle Erik. It was not as if I didn't like him. He had often told me stories about the opera and famous dancers he had seen, and when he sent parcels for Philippe, he always put something in them for me as well. I thought that was very nice of him. Philippe also let me read the letters he sent, and then we'd talk about them, unless I had something better to do.

Sometimes Philippe tried to talk to Maman or Papa about Uncle Erik, but he didn't dare it very often. It was hard to tell how they'd react. Papa usually made a face as if he had a bad tooth-ache and changed the subject quickly. Maman's reaction, however, was completely unpredictable. Sometimes she grew quiet and moody, and sometimes she grew angry and refused to talk about the subject. Once or twice, she had even locked herself in the twins' room and hadn't come out for hours.

No, being at home wasn't nice at the moment. Even after more than two years of living there, it still didn't feel like home. The house was much too big, and in the first few weeks, Philippe had even lost his way in it every now and then. I had also lost my way a couple of times, but unlike my little brother, I hadn't told anyone. It would have been too embarrassing.

The only advantage of the big house was that I had been given my own room almost immediately, which would have surely not been possible in a smaller house. It was a nice room, with windows overlooking the garden and enough space for me to practice basic steps. Maman and Papa had spent a lot of money on decorating it the way I wanted it. I had got a lot of new things, and the room was even prettier than the one I had had in our old house.

Nearly all our old servants were staying with us as well, so that couldn't be the reason why I wasn't feeling at home either. Only Jacques had decided to remain with Papa, but I had never liked him very much anyway. He had always raised his eyebrows and thrown me cold glances when I had practiced steps in the corridor. But then, I practiced in my room now, so it wouldn't have mattered if he had been there.

Besides, ever since that strange thing with his heart had happened at the day of the fire, Jacques wasn't very threatening anymore. When Philippe and I came to visit Papa, the butler was usually sitting in an armchair with a blanket over his knees, hardly looking at us. Papa said he had simply grown very old.

Jacqueline had certainly not grown old, but she was being strange as well. Now that Marielle was back to look after Philippe, I had hoped that Jacqueline would belong to me again. Yet even though she did bring me to the opera, she never came inside with me and watched me dance, but stayed at the coach with Gabriel. I had never actually caught them at it, but I was sure they were kissing.

She didn't watch me practice at home either, the way she had done in our old house. The moment we came back from wherever we had been, she vanished in the twins' room, playing with them or simply looking at them. Marielle and Larisse were just the same. As soon as they saw the twins, everything else became unimportant. They listened to stories Maman and Aunt Meg told them, about how nice Clarille and Michel had been right after their birth and how much they had screamed during their first weeks, as if they had never heard anything more fascinating.

I found those stories very boring, and I couldn't understand why the others were so keen on hearing them again and again. Sure, Marielle and Larisse hadn't been present when the twins had been born, but they had heard every story at least a hundred times now, and even Jacqueline, who had been there in person at the time, couldn't get enough of them.

The truly strange thing was that Maman and Aunt Meg seemed to think that Philippe and I should enjoy the stories as well, just because we hadn't been there at the twins' birth either. We had been on holiday with Papa for three whole months, staying in our holiday home in Nice. Papa had been working most of the time, but sometimes, he had taken us to the beach. And of course Marielle had been with us all the time. It had been a wonderful time, and when we had come back, the twins had already been nearly three months old. They had been born just a few days after we had left.

When I listened to the stories – for I did listen to them, even if I pretended not to – I sometimes thought it a pity that we hadn't been around when the babies had been tiny. Maman in particular had a nice way of explaining every detail about how Michel had been born first, big and red and screaming on top of his lungs, and how it had been Clarille's turn next, as if she had wanted her brother to see what the world was like outside first. She had been much smaller than him, and even today, she wasn't as big as he was, which was something that Uncle Jean pointed out to Philippe many times when he complained about being much too small. It only made me laugh. Philippe would always be my little brother, no matter how much he grew.

But when I heard the story of how much the twins had been screaming, I was glad that we hadn't been around after all. If I felt like hearing someone yell, I simply came to the opera with Aunt Antoinette and watched her practice with the chorus girls, just like today. It might have been a little boring, but it was better than sitting at home, listening to all the talking about the twins. It was no wonder that my thoughts began to run into all directions as soon as I arrived here. At home, I could barely hear myself think.

"Antoinette!" Aunt Antoinette called over to me, almost as if she had known that I was thinking about her.

Looking up, I saw that the chorus girls were already leaving. The rehearsal was over, and I hadn't even noticed it. I got to my feet, stretching my arms high over my head and shaking my legs as I did so. I felt as though I had been sitting in the same position for hours.

"Are we leaving?" I asked.

Aunt Antoinette nodded.

"Enough work done for today," she said. "If we don't go now, we'll be late for dinner, and your mother will be angry at me."

"She probably wouldn't even notice it," I muttered. "She's much too busy with the twins all the time."

"Believe me, your mother would be very sad if you didn't show up for dinner," Aunt Antoinette assured me. "Besides, think of all the interesting things you'll be able to tell her about what you've seen today. And maybe she'll have news as well."

"News?" I repeated. "What news? Nothing interesting ever happens at home."


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

**November 5****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

"When?" Philippe asked eagerly. "When will he come back?"

"I don't know it exactly," I admitted. "But neither does Uncle Erik himself. Listen to this." I held the letter in front of my eyes and read: "´It's hard to tell on which day I'll return. The journey will take serveral days, maybe even a week. But then, this letter will probably take as long as that, so it's possible that it'll arrive later than me.´"

"But he's not here yet," Philippe argued, the expression on his face a little sad. "Why doesn't he hurry up? What's keeping him?"

"He said that this might happen," I assured him quickly. "This is how the letter goes on: ´However, it is much more likely that it'll take me a few days longer. There's something I have to do before I can leave. I'll see you all as soon as I can.´"

"What is it that he has to do?" Philippe asked.

I was glad to see that he no longer seemed to be miserable. On the contrary, he looked rather curious and excited.

"I have no idea," I answered. "It doesn't say anywhere in the letter. But knowing Uncle Erik, I think that he probably has to buy a present for you."

"Or for you," he added, smiling at me.

I smiled as well, thinking of all the presents Erik had sent me over the years. Most of them had been beautiful pieces of jewellery, bracelets of gold and necklaces of silver, set with colourful gems. But his parcels had also contained other things, books with beautiful illustrations, silken scarfs and mother-of-pearl combs. I had hidden all those treasures in my wardrobe, taking them out and wearing them at night, when I was alone in my room and couldn't sleep.

Sometimes, however, I didn't take out the box with Erik's presents, but another one, in which I had stored the things Raoul had given me. At first, I had refused to accept anything from him, afraid it would give him the wrong kind of ideas. Yet one day, I had realised how foolish such a behaviour had been. After all, I hadn't sent back any of Erik's presents, so it would have been wrong to do so with Raoul's. I wanted to treat them in the same way.

The only thing I never did was take out both boxes and compare the contents with each other. I tried not to compare Erik and Raoul, no matter on which level. Sometimes, I longed for one of them, sometimes for the other, and sometimes, I was glad that neither of them was with me. My life was complicated enough as it was.

But now Erik would come back, and I wouldn't be able to fool him. Fear rose in my stomach. He'd realise what was going on at once, and –

"Maman?" Philippe said cautiously. "Is there anything wrong? You're not talking…"

"No, no," I replied quickly, forcing a smile back on my face. "I'm fine. It's just… I'm a little hungry. Shall we go downstairs and see whether dinner is ready? It's nearly time."

He nodded, but I thought he still looked slightly suspicious. Or was I just imagining it? He certainly wasn't as trusting as he had once been. The fire and everything else that had happened had destroyed much more than our house. Both Antoinette and Philippe had grown wary, especially in the presence of strangers. On the one hand, that was a good thing, but I couldn't help wishing they would not have been robbed of their trust in such a brutal way.

Feeling Philippe's gaze on me, I pulled myself together hastily. My children were used to the fact that I was lost in thought more often than I had been, but losing the thread of a conversation twice within minutes would have been too much, even for my standards.

"Let us go then," I said, trying to sound cheerful."I hope there'll be something good for dinner. I'm really hungry." It wasn't exactly true – the fear in my stomach didn't leave space for hunger – but maybe the food would distract me from my sombre thoughts. I'd still have enough time for them later, when I'd be alone.

"Can Gilles come with us?" Philippe asked.

"Of course he – " I interrupted myself, realising what I had just heard. I looked down at my son incredulously. "Gilles…" I muttered. "Where does he come from all of a sudden? I thought he had been in the fire…"

"But I've told you he had come back," Philippe reminded me. This time, I was sure that I did not imagine the accusing tone in his voice. "I've told you only a few minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, my dear," I apologised, giving his shoulder an affectionate little squeeze. "I didn't pay attention because I was too excited about Uncle Erik coming back. I thought your father had simply sent you a new bear. But tell me about Gilles now. Where did your father find him?"

Looking slightly mollified, Philippe explained all about the Colettis. He also showed me the note Raoul had written. The story made me feel all warm inside, and the fear subsided. Raoul was such a thoughtful father. He'd do anything for his children. Reuniting Philippe with Gilles was an excellent example for that thoughtfulness. He knew how much the bear meant to our son and how much he had missed him. We had tried to buy him another bear, but there was only one Gilles. No other toy had been able to replace him.

"You'll have to write your father and thank him," I told Philippe.

"I'll do so," he promised. "But I'll see him in two days' time anyway."

"Oh, is it already Thursday?" I muttered. I didn't leave the house too often these days, and sometimes, I lost track of time.

"Yes, it is," Philippe replied. "And Papa will pick me up on Saturday."

I nodded.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy ourselves," I said. "Do you already know where you'll be going?"

We made our way downstairs. Philippe was happily speculating about where Raoul would take him this time. I gave short, automatic answers every now and then. I didn't exactly enjoy the subject of my son and his father, but I knew he liked talking about it. Raoul took Philippe to places he had never been before, and when he came back, the boy was always full of laughter and carrying a new toy. It were good days for him, and I told myself that I couldn't be so selfish as to forbid him to talk about his adventures.

I knew Philippe would have liked to see his father more often, but it was simply not possible. Ever since Raoul had moved into his own house, he was working more than ever. All his promises of reducing the amount of work had been forgotten quickly. I had the suspicion that he simply couldn't bear sitting alone in the big, empty house and had to keep himself busy. He tried to take the weekends off for the children, but it didn't always work, for many social events took place then. Philippe had no idea how much effort his father put into seeing him and his sister at least once a week.

"And the best thing about it is that Antoinette won't come with us," Philippe finished with a satisfied expression on his face. "But don't tell her that I said that."

"I won't," I promised, smiling.

I knew how much being alone with his father every now and then meant to the boy. Antoinette was a lovely girl, but she could be a little demanding, and I could imagine very well that most of the time, they did what she wanted. It would be good for Philippe to be the one in charge. And Antoinette would enjoy herself at the opera as well. She loved watching rehearsals with all singers and dancers and had therefore decided to accompany Mme.Giry, even if it meant not seeing her father that weekend. It had been hard for Raoul, but in the end, he had accepted that his daughter had her own interests.

We reached the bottom of the stairs just as the clock in the living room chimed seven.

"Mme.Giry and Antoinette should already have come back," I remarked. "Mme.Giry must have forgotten the time while she was practicing. The food will be cold when they'll finally show up." I rolled my eyes. It would have not been the first time that they arrived long after everyone else was finished eating.

"Can I tell them about Uncle Erik right away?" Philippe asked excitedly.

"Of course you can," I replied. "Why shouldn't you? After all, Uncle Erik will arrive as soon as tomorrow or on the weekend. We all have to be prepared, so that we'll – "

I stopped, noticing the expression on my son's face. He did not look happy.

"Maman…" he said slowly. "Papa will also be here on the weekend. What if he'll meet Uncle Erik?"


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

**November 5****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Any thought of cold food or Antoinette being late faded from my mind as I heard Philippe ask his question. Oh, what an excellent question it was! I felt faintly embarrassed because my son had thought of something I hadn't considered at all. So this was where my method of always keeping Erik and Raoul away from each other in my head had got me: They'd soon meet in reality, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

Noticing that Philippe was still watching me, waiting for my reply, I told him:

"Well, I doubt they'll be pleased to see each other. You know they don't like each other too much. But I don't think they'll do anything stupid, so you don't have to be worried." I underlined my words with an unconvicingly bright smile.

Philippe frowned and looked as though he was about to argue, so I added:

"Moreover, it's not likely that they'll meet at all. Your father won't be here very long on Saturday, just to pick you up in the morning and bring you back in the evening. It would be a very big coincidence if Uncle Erik chose to arrive at exactly that time. Maybe your father won't come himself at all, but send his coach for you…"

I knew I was trying to convince myself as much as my son, and it wasn't working too well for either of us. Philippe was still looking sceptical, maybe even more so than before.

"Papa will pick me up himself," he told me. "He has a new coachman, and he says he doesn't trust him to pick Antoinette or me up alone yet. He says the coachman is taking detours on purpose, so that he has time to go to inns and drink there."

"Well, not every coachman can be as good as our Gabriel," I muttered, choosing not to comment on the fact that one of my hopes had just been shattered. Raoul would definitely show up himself. "Perhaps Uncle Erik won't arrive on Saturday at all, but later or sooner. Then they won't meet."

I was half-determined to write to Erik and ask him to come later when I remembered I didn't have his current address. Besides, he probably was on his way to Paris already. There was no way I could reach him.

Philippe opened his mouth to say something, but in that moment, Larisse came walking towards us from the kitchen.

"Oh, you're already here," she said, smiling. "I was just going to fetch you. Dinner is ready. Where are Mme.Tavoire and Marielle?"

"They're upstairs, in Clarille's and Michel's room," I replied. "Could you fetch them? And if you have any idea where Jacqueline and Gabriel are…"

"But they're not here, Madame," Larisse told me, looking at me in exactly the same way Philippe had done when I had forgotten that it was Thursday. "It's their evening off. You allowed them to take the coach."

"Oh yes," I mumbled quickly, recalling that I had indeed said something like that. "Well, they won't be back for dinner then. But do fetch the others."

Larisse nodded and walked past us. For a moment, I considered going with her. It had only been aabout an hour since I had last seen the little ones, but I already missed them. Only the thought of what Philippe would say if I left him alone made me continue my way to the dining room. I knew that in his opinion, as well as in Antoinette's, I spent far too much time with Clarille and Michel. He rarely said so, but as his mother, I could tell his mood just from the way he looked at me.

Of course I understood that two one-year-old children didn't hold a lot of fascination for a boy like Philippe. Still I thought that he liked them. I sometimes found him sitting in their room, reading to them out of Erik's book. I didn't need his teacher to tell me that his reading skills were very advanced for an eight-year-old. Listening to him was a pleasure, and I was sure that the little ones enjoyed it as well, even though they couldn't show it in a way Philippe understood.

Antoinette didn't spend that much time with Clarille and Michel. She seemed to regard them as rather boring, just like everyone who wasn't interested in dancing. Ever since she had started spending so much time with Meg and Mme.Giry, her enthusiasm for ballet had grown even more, and she was determined to become a chorus girl herself as soon as possible. She divided any minute she could spare between practicing and watching rehearsals. There wasn't much time left for anything else, least of all two little children.

My thoughts came to a halt as we entered the dining room. I saw that it was empty, except for Marie, the maid, who was just bringing the last spoons to their place. Like nearly always, the table looked much too big for the few plates standing on it. It was a huge table. At least twenty people could sit and eat here, but that didn't happen too often. Before the little ones had been there, Meg and Jean had often had dinner with many friends, but these days, Meg said she was too exhausted to eat with more people than the few of us. I knew how she was feeling.

Looking at the table, I couldn't help imaging one more plate on it. There'd be plenty of space for Erik – ten seats if he wanted that many. I smiled to myself.

"Are you thinking of Uncle Erik?" Philippe asked. "You're smiling…"

I looked down at him in surprise, wondering whether he had always been that attentive towards other people's moods. Perhaps it was one of the many things he had learned from Erik.

"Yes," I admitted, blushing like a young girl. "Yes, I was thinking of Uncle Erik. I just thought that there'll be enough space for him at the table."

"Oh, will he stay with us then?" Philippe wanted to know.

"I have no idea," I replied. "But I do think he'll at least take meals with us every now and then. He won't have any food in his home."

It occurred to me that Erik hadn't mentioned where he'd live once he got back, nor how long he'd stay at all. Yet I couldn't imagine that he'd choose to live here rather than going home. The opera was where he belonged, and he surely had a lot of things to do there. Still, he'd be free to eat with us whenever he felt like it. Mme.Giry and Meg wouldn't mind, and Jean would be positively thrilled when he heard who'd be coming here.

Philippe nodded.

"But if Uncle Erik wants to stay here, you will allow him to, won't you?" he asked. "Perhaps he'll arrive at night, and it'll be cold in his house because he hasn't been there for such a long time…"

The boy's concern for Erik was truly touching. If it had been someone else, I'd have agreed to let them stay for a few days without further discussion, as long as it was all right with Meg and Jean. But Erik… The longer he stayed, the more likely he was to find out what had happened.

"We'll see," I muttered, since I didn't want to disappoint Philippe right away. "We'll talk about it once Uncle Erik is here." I smiled nervously, trying to calm down by telling myself that Erik would probably stay in his house anyway. What was the point in worrying about something that wasn't even likely to happen?

Philippe was distracted from responding by the arrival of Mme.Bajard, the housekeeper. Her gaze fell upon Marie at once, and a stern line appeared on her forehead.

"There you are, girl!" she called. "Dreaming again, are you? How long does it take you to lay a table? You should have been in the kitchen five minutes ago. Do you think the food will carry itself into the room? And where is Mme.Gardé?"

The maid's cheeks flushed scarlet, and she fled from the room, mumbling something inaudible.

"Larisse is upstairs, fetching Mme.Tavoire and the others," I answered for the girl.

The housekeeper looked at me, as if realising for the first time that she was not alone. She didn't dare be as rude to me as to the maid, but still her gaze was far from friendly.

"I didn't tell her to do that," she said, with an air of defiance I didn't like at all.

"No, you didn't," I agreed coldly. "But, as I've told you on more than one occasion, Mme.Gardé is not your servant. I am her employer, and I allow her to make her own decisions as to where she goes at which time. I'd be very grateful if you could stop criticising her."

"Yes, Madame," Mme.Bajard muttered, leaving the room without another word.

I glared after her. I didn't like the way she treated the other servants, but since she didn't work for me, there was little I could do, except protect my own servants as well as I could. Sometimes, I felt as if I were back in the first time with Jacques. He had treated me with the same contempt bordering on insolence.

I gave a little sigh, thinking that I'd have to talk to Meg about the subject once more. Then I turned to Philippe.

"I'm sorry that you had to witness that," I told him. "But – "

"Antoinette!" he interrupted me. "Mme.Giry!"

I looked over my shoulder and saw that the two had indeed just entered the room. Philippe was delighted, and he wasted no time.

"You won't believe who's coming back!" he called.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

**November 5****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

It was a quiet group of people that had met in the library. No formal invitation had been necessary. Everyone who was concerned had known at once what it had meant when Mme.Giry had announced that she'd take a little time to enjoy the silence of the library after dinner. We had always met there. It had been a while since the last time.

Mme.Giry was sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace. It had grown cold over the last few weeks, and as the oldest of us, she felt it most. Not that she looked like an old woman. Sitting with her back perfectly straight and her head held high, she more resembled a queen on her throwne. No one who didn't know her very well would have seen the signs of fatigue about her, the lines around her mouth, the occasional drooping of the eyelids. But I knew her too well to overlook them, and it made me feel guilty to see her like that. She should have gone to bed hours ago instead of sitting here.

Meg was right next to her, stretched out on the sofa. Even though she had spent all day in the house, just like myself, she looked as if she had had a far more exhausting time than her mother. Every now and then, she stifled a yawn with her hand, then she glanced at me, smiling apologetically. It couldn't have been more obvious that she'd have preferred going to bed as well. Even though he was at an age at which most children slept soundly all night, Michel woke up at least once an hour and cried for his mother, often waking up Clarille, too. I couldn't remember the last time Meg had had a decent night's sleep.

Suppressing a yawn myself, I thought that I couldn't remember the last time I had had a decent night's sleep either. Ever since the birth of my first child, I had developed a light sleep and always heard the littles ones. Of course I couldn't just ignore the sounds and let Meg care for the children alone. It was far too much work for a single person.

Although there would have been plenty of space for me to sit down, I didn't do it. I was tired, yes, but I also felt restless, full of energy. I paced the room, from the door to the balcony and back. Occasionally, I picked up a book and brought it to a different shelf. It was a pointless work, but it kept my hands busy. I tried hard not to think about what had happened in this very room after the fire. It would have been far too painful.

At last, the door was opened slowly, cautiously. I stopped pacing in a corner of the room and looked at the door expectantly.

"It's me, Jacqueline," a voice called softly. "Can I come in?"

"Certainly," Mme.Giry replied.

The maid entered the room quickly and closed the door behind her. I saw that she was still wearing a long cloak. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold outside, and her eyes sparkled. She seemed to have had a wonderful evening.

"You took your time coming here," Mme.Giry stated, pointing at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter to ten.

"I'm sorry," Jacqueline muttered, taking off the heavy cloak and throwing it over a stool next to the door. A vase had stood there until last week, when Michel had smashed it. "Gabriel and I only arrived back a few minutes ago. I went to see what the children were doing. Antoinette and Philippe are both sleeping soundly, but I was surprised that I didn't meet any of you. When I saw Marielle in Clarille's and Michel's room, I asked her about it, and she said that you, Mme.Giry, had retired to the library. I came here at once. What is it?" She looked around nervously, as if expecting the problem to jump at her from a corner.

I threw Mme.Giry a slightly pleading glance, wordlessly urging her to tell the story. I was not in the mood for talking about it more than I had already done to explain the situation to Meg and her. She gave a short nod.

"M.Erik will return to Paris," she announced. "He sent a letter to Christine, informing her about his arrival."

"When will he be here?" Jacqueline asked breathlessly, looking around yet again. Did she think he was already there, hiding somewhere?

"We don't know the exact time," Mme.Giry informed her. "It could be as soon as tomorrow or as late as in a few days' time. I think we should be prepared for the worst possible scenario, meaning that he'll arrive tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Jacqueline echoed. "But that's much too soon. There's nothing we can do in such a short space of time."

"Do you want to give up now?" Meg interjected sharply. "After all the time we managed to hide the secret, after all the difficulties we've mastered?"

"No, no," Jacqueline asnwered quickly, making pacifying gestures. "I swore to be at your side, and I'll do so. But what can we do?"

She looked at Mme.Giry, who always was the one with the best ideas.

"First of all, we have to clarify the facts," Mme.Giry said at once. "Do we know for certain that Erik will come to this house at all?"

"Of course he will," Meg replied. "He wants to see Christine and Philippe. I don't think anyone will be able to keep him from coming here. You know how determined he can be."

Mme.Giry nodded.

"True," she acknowledged. "But the fact that he wants to see them doesn't necessarily mean that he has to come here. They could meet somewhere else. At the opera, for instance."

"Good idea, Madame," Jacqueline praised her. She seemed to lose a little of her initial shyness around the ballet mistress, now that she was involved in the discussion. "We could tell him that he has to meet Christine and Philippe at the opera because… because… oh, maybe we could pretend that someone is very ill here, and the doctor wants it to be quiet in the house, which is why no visitors are allowed in."

Pride was visible clearly on her face as she looked around, but Meg said something that wiped the smile off her face at once.

"All that sounds very good in theory," she admitted,. "Reality is a completely different matter, though. As we all know perfectly well, Erik is not stupid. If we tell him that there's someone ill, he'll want to see that person in order to help. And if we don't let him in, he'll be bound to grow suspicious. Besides…"

She closed her eyes for a moment, probably to think about more arguments. When she opened them again, she shook her head dismissively.

"I just realised," she muttered. "We've been taking an entirely wrong approach towards the subject. In his letter, Erik wrote that he will come here. Even if we could think of a perfect excuse why he can't enter the house, there's no way in which we could tell him before he arrives here. And once he's here on the doorstep, we can't send him away."

Jacqueline went over to a chair and sat down at last, looking utterly miserable.

"We've lost," she mumbled. "He will notice what has happened, and oh… he'll be so angry! So angry…" She shivered, as if hit by a sudden gust of cold wind. "He'll be angry at all of us because we've been hiding the secret from him together. He'll – "

"We haven't been hiding it from him, but from everyone," Meg interrupted her. "And that is the reason why I don't think we should give up now. We've been hiding it for years, and no one has as much as noticed that something isn't right."

"It's different with M.Erik," Jacqueline argued stubbornly. "In all the time I've known him, I've never managed to keep a secret from him. He always got the information he wanted, simply by asking the right questions. Most of the time, I didn't even realise how much I had told him until it was too late."

"Perhaps it is indeed too late," Mme.Giry said. "Perhaps the time for lies and hiding is over, and the time for the truth has come. What do you think, Christine? You haven't spoken a word so far."

Suddenly all eyes were fixed upon me. I squirmed uncomfortably. I had rather enjoyed my role as silent audience. It had been so much easier to pretend that it all had nothing to do with me, that I was merely a by-stander who had happened to come along and listen to the discussion.

My gaze wandered from Mme.Giry over Meg to Jacqueline, and I felt a rush of gratitude for the three women. They had done so much, taken so many risks, only to make sure that my secret wasn't revealed. Yes, that was what it was: _my_ secret, no matter how often they called it _ours_.

"You mean… I should tell Erik the truth?" I asked hesitantly.

Mme.Giry nodded.

"It would be a start," she replied. "And once you've told it to one person, you could go on. Think about how much easier everything would become for you…"

"No!" I whispered. "I can't! I just… can't!"

I felt as if all the lies we had built so carefully over the years were about to collapse, right over me. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't forbid Erik to come here. Yet if he came, he'd find out the secret. And once he'd know it, everyone else would. And then – I forced myself not to think about it.

I knew it was a completely irrational, foolish way of reacting that wouldn't help me at all, but there was nothing else for me to do. I had to get away from here. I fled from the room, slamming the door behind me.


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's note:** First of all, thanks for all the nice reviews! Several people asked me whether they were supposed to know Christine's secret. The answer is no (although I'm always interested in hearing your guesses), but you'll know it soon enough. Oh, and I'm going on holiday today. I'll be in London till the 21st, so don't expect a new chapter in the next time.

**Chapter Six**

**November 5****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

I had never enjoyed travelling by train too much. It didn't have the elegance of horseback-riding, and it didn't offer the same opportunities of a quick detour as riding in a coach. Even the journey on a boat was more comfortable, at least on the kind of boat I used.

I had thought long about why I didn't like trains and had come to the conclusion that the reason were the sounds. It was far too noisy. At first, I had hardly been able to think at all while sitting in a compartment, and even now, after I had used the train many times, I found it much more difficult to comcentrate here than at most other places. The unmelodic clinking and rattling was truly annoying.

However, I had grown used to this means of transport in my years of travelling. As long as several conditions were fulfilled, I didn't have too many problems with getting on board, although I still didn't enjoy it. Sometimes, when not everything had been perfect, I had simply left the station again and continued my travels in a different way. I did have my standards.

On this journey, all conditions were fulfilled. The first and most important of them was the fact that I only travelled in my own compartment, which no one else was allowed to enter. Even my travelling companions – and I had had quite a few of those – had never stayed in my compartment longer than we had needed to discuss the next part of my journey. Neither of them had found it peculiar… at least not more peculiar than the rest of me.

I needed my own compartment not only in order to hear myself think, but simply to have my privacy. Travelling, at least in the way I did it, was a tedious business that often made even the most basic human needs impossible, especially the one for privacy, which naturally was more pronounced in me than in anyone else. My own compartment allowed me the freedom to take off my mask whenever I wanted to without the annoying consequences of people screaming or fainting. I hated it when that happened.

Another one of my conditions was my entire luggage being with me in my compartment. I owned a heavy trunk which I never let out of my sight. So many things were frequently stolen from trains, but as long as I was awake – and I rarely slept on my journeys – my luggage was safe. It contained everything I needed, from clothes, a little food and drink to an additional maks. I hadn't needed the latter so far, but I still carried it with me wherever I went, just in case.

At the moment, the trunk stood open, because I was kneeling in front of it and going through my possessions to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything important at my last stay. A part of it was filled with presents. I had wrapped them all myself, so that nothing would break. Running my fingers over the smooth paper, I imagined each person I had bought a present for. When they'd get them this time, it would be much better than with the other presents, for I'd actually get to see the reactions of the people I cared for.

Staying away from Paris for such a long time had been much harder than I had thought. Sometimes, I had felt the urge to go back in every part of my body, like a physical ache. Yet I had always resisted the temptation, knowing that once I was back home, I wouldn't be able to leave again. Too many things would hold me back, not least of all my own health.

Yes, it had been good to go, as long as I had still been able to. I didn't necessarily feel ill, but I did notice that I needed a little more time to get up in the morning (if I hadn't spent the night doing more important things, that was), and I grew tired more quickly than before, after just a few dozen miles of brisk walking. Standing up from the floor and sitting back down on my seat, I heard my joints creak.

Still, I didn't feel like an old man yet. There still were many things I could do and had to do, most of them with Philippe. Even though I was sure that he had followed each and every of my instructions carefully, I knew he had to learn a lot before he'd be prepared to take over as Opera Ghost. He was only eight years old, after all, and couldn't be expected to perform all necessary tasks yet.

It hurt me to know that I had missed such a vital part of his life. Merely hearing about him hadn't been a good substitute. Whenever it had been possible to send Christine my address, I had done so, and she had written long letters, describing everything that had had happened. Philippe had often sent a few lines as well, and I had been delighted to see how well he could write. It was clear that the teacher I had recommended had been just the right one to teach him in my absence. Still I was looking forward to taking over myself again. Philippe would surely prefer it as well. There was so much we had to catch up on.

My boy wasn't the only one I missed, though. Every time I saw a little girl, I was reminded of Antoinette. But then, she was not a little girl anymore now. According to Christine, she had grown a few inches over the years and was on her way to become a charming young lady. Only her love for the ballet seemed to be just the same as always. I was glad about it. She'd join the chorus before long, and it would be good for Philippe to have another familiar face at the opera.

Sometimes, though not very often, I also thought of my faithful Jacqueline, of Marielle and all the other servants, wondering what they were doing now. Yet most of the time, my thoughts belonged to Christine. Going away from her after all that had happened between us had perhaps been the hardest part of my decision to leave. Even though I tried not to dwell on the past, certain images of what we had done together were my constant companions wherever I went: the physical things, yes, but more importantly the way she had looked at me, that special tone in her voice when she had said my name.

I still loved her. Three years of separation hadn't changed anything about it. A hundred years of separation wouldn't have changed anything about it. The problem was that I didn't know if she felt the same about me. Three years were a long time for a woman as young as Christine, and I only had a vague idea of what had happened in her life since I had left. She had always been willing to tell me about the children, but she had been rather silent about herself.

I didn't know where the suspicion came from or when it had first appeared in my head, but I couldn't help thinking that Christine was with the Vicomte again. I could be fairly certain that they weren't living together, for Philippe would have told me about it, but maybe they were meeting in secret, and Christine kept quiet about it because she didn't want to hurt my feelings.

The longer I thought about it, my head leaned against the cool window as the darkness passed by outside, the more logical that explanation seemed to me. And the more logical it seemed, the angrier I grew. How could Christine play with me like that, writing me long letters while she was with the Vicomte again? Were they perhaps sitting together at night, laughing about my stupidity?

My hands clenched into fists in my lap, and I felt the urge to hit someone or something… preferrably the Vicomte. Yet since he was not here, I merely kicked my trunk hard. The only result, apart from the pain in my foot, was that a few sheets of music landed on the floor. I picked them up carefully. They belonged to a new compostion of mine, an aria I had written a few weeks ago.

Staring down at the sheets with their deeply romantic lyrics, I suddenly had an idea. There was something I could do to hurt Christine like she hurt me. I hadn't planned it to be that way, but now I felt I had to do it, just to see the look on her face. She'd be furious, but it would only serve her right. After all, she had betrayed my love first.

I put the sheets back into my trunk and went to the door. Just like I had expected, a tray with food was standing outside. It was another one of the conditions I had. Smiling to myself, I carried the tray inside. Suddenly I felt very hungry.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

**November 5****th**** 1895:**_ Raoul_

"So, have you delivered the parcel?" I asked, looking at the coachman expectantly.

"Yes, M. le Comte," Gerald replied. "Of course I've done it. I brought it to your son, just like you told me to do."

He nodded impatiently, as if he thought the question was dull and barely worth his attention. I, on the other hand, knew very well that without me constantly checking what he was doing, he'd spent half his working hours in the nearest inn, drinking and laughing with his friends instead of doing his job properly.

"And what did he say?" I wanted to know.

The coachman frowned.

"How am I supposed to know that?" he muttered. "I didn't see him."

"But you just said that you gave the parcel to him," I argued, feeling slightly angry. "How did you manage to do that without seeing him?"

"Well, I didn't give it to him in person," he admitted. "I gave it to the maid. The dark-haired one with the many curves. Pretty, pretty…" He licked his lips obscenely.

I felt faintly sick, but was determined not to show it. The slightest shudder would have cost me all respect, and I had never had too much of it in the first place, at least not with that man.

"The maid's name is Marie," I snapped. "And that's what I want you to call her. You deliver parcels to that house at least once a week, and it is not asked too much to remember a couple of names. If you find that you can't even fit that much into your head, I should better start looking for another coachman, one who can remember more than the fastest way to every inn in the city." I threw him a cold glance.

"No, Monsieur," he mumbled quickly. "I'll… I'll bear it in mind, Monsieur. Can I go now… please?"

"Yes, go," I replied with a dismissive gesture.

He gave me something that could have been interpreted as a smile and walked out of the door, slamming it shut behind him.

I stifled an exasperated sigh. Having such a man work for me was a nightmare. Sometimes, he arrived to work in the morning swaying so badly that I had to send him home straight away. I wished I hadn't hired him in the first place. Yet now that he was there, I couldn't bring myself to dismiss him again. I knew that many men in my position wouldn't have had the slightest difficulties in doing so, but I was not like them. I couldn't help imagining what would happen to him and his family if I threw him out into the street. They'd probably end up in the gutter, and it would all be my fault.

Moreover, even if I had been capable of dismissing him, I would have been the one to suffer the consequences. After all, I needed a coachman, and I didn't have time to find a new one. It had been hard enough to get the servants I already had. It had cost me a lot of time, and I had far too little of it anyway.

I knew I was working too much. I spent more time than ever with business partners and other people who wished to borrow money from me. After Christine had left me, I had tried to reduce the hours I was working, but I hadn't been able to do it for more than a few days. People depended on my work. If they started regarding me as unreliable, they'd look for another patron.

Besides, I liked the work I was doing. It kept me busy and helped me not to ponder too much. When I came home after a long day, all I did was eat something, read a little and go to bed. Some people would have regarded my life as very boring, but it was just right for me. I was not the young man I had once been. I went to the theatre and to dinner in restaurants if I was invited there for business discussions, but in general, I was perfectly happy at home.

Well, that was not entirely true. ´Perfectly happy´ was an exaggeration. I had been happy when Christine and the children had still been with me. The interesting and rather ironic thing about it was that at that time, I hadn't truly appreciated it. I hadn't known how empty a house could be without Antoinette's laughter, without Philippe's constant questions, without Christine's soft voice.

Realising that I was still standing in the corridor, staring at the now closed entrance door, I turned around and made my way back to the living room. My footsteps echoed in the silence. The house truly was much too big for me. Even if all the servants had stayed here at night, there would have been empty rooms. As it was, the housekeeper and the coachman left every evening to go home to their own families. Only Jacques stayed with me, and I was glad about it. He might not have been the most entertaining company in the world, but at least there was another living soul in the house.

In all my life, I had never been completely alone. When I had been a child, I had lived with my family, of course, and even after I had grown up, I had stayed in the family home. First my sisters had married and moved to live with their new husbands, then my brother had died, and Christine had moved in. I had never been alone. Not until now.

The silence in the corridor was slightly terrifying. I scolded myself for being such a coward, but I still walked more quickly till I reached the living room. It was an elegantly furnished room, with huge book shelves, soft sofas and low tables and foot stools everywhere.

The room was beautiful, but it didn't really feel as though it belonged to me, just like the rest of the house. It had already been completely furnished when I had moved in. An elderly lady had lived here before, and when she had died (thankfully not in the house, but in hospital), none of her relatives had wanted more than a few family heirlooms… and the handsome sum of money I had paid for the house, of course. For just a little more money, I had been able to purchase the furniture with it.

I could have bought everything new, but at that time, I had still been so shocked by Christine leaving me that I hadn't cared where I sat and slept. I had brought with me a few things from the old house and the personal belongings that had been in the suitcases. It had been enough for me.

Over the years, however, I had made a few changes in the house. It had grown marginally less gloomy, mainly for the children's sake. They had been afraid of going into certain rooms because they had been too dark, so I had turned them into their rooms, buying curtains in bright colours and new furniture instead of the old one, which had given even the sunniest room a sense of foreboding. Antoinette and Philippe rarely stayed in those rooms, but I had still wanted the children to have them. It gave me a good feeling to know they had a place in my new house.

There was just one other person who had a permanent place in this house. At the moment, he was snoring in an armchair by the fire. I smiled at my old butler as I entered the room. The blanket had slipped off his knees, and I pulled it up again. So many years he had cared for me. I only thought it right to give a little of that care back to him.

Since I didn't want to go to bed yet, I settled down in the other armchair with a book. It was the story of a young man and his adventures in India. On any other day, the tales would have fascinated me, but today, my mind was occupied with something else. It wasn't good for me to think too much about the children, for it always made me think of… Christine.

I let out a wistful sigh. I could never make up my mind as to whom I missed more, her or the children. The truth was that I probably missed all of them together. Even living in this big old house would have been bearable if they had been with me. But they had a new home and a new family, and I was no part of it.

At day-time, I tried to avoid any thought of those circumstances. The official version of events was that my wife and the children were living with Meg and Jean because Meg couldn't care for the babies alone. I was aware that there were quite a few rumours regarding the truthfulness of the story, but I kept telling and re-telling it. I simply didn't know what else to say.

The truth was too terrible to tell anyone. I only discussed it with myself, in lonely hours such as this one. Christine didn't love me anymore. Christine didn't want me anymore. I had often wondered whether there was someone else, whether she still waited for the Phantom to come back, but I had no idea if it was true. Since I saw Christine so rarely and could hardly ask her about the subject, I had no proof for any of my theories, and I hadn't sunken low enough to question the children.

I closed the book with a determined snap, realising that I wouldn't be able to take in anything else today. The sound made Jacques stir in his seat. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

"M. le Come," he said, his mouth stretching into a tired smile. "I didn't notice you were here…"

"You should go to bed, Jacques," I told him. "It has been a long day. You didn't have to wait for me, you know."

"But there was something I wanted to ask you," he muttered, trying to stand up.

I jumped to my feet and went over to help him. His joints were stiff these days, especially when he hadn't moved them for a while. With the additional support of his cane, he came to his feet.

"It's my niece, Cecile," he went on as I steered him out of the room. I was determined to get him to bed before I went to sleep myself. "My sister's daughter. She wants to come to Paris for a few weeks and needs a place to stay. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important, but… do you think she could live here for a while? I'm sure she would be very useful. She could help in the kitchen, make the beds…" He took a deep breath, and I heard the tell-tale rattling sound deep in his chest.

"How old is she?" I asked.

Jacques frowned.

"The last time I saw her, she was… ten… or twelve… something like that. That was… two years ago, I think. Or maybe three? Four?" He scratched his head pensively. "I'm not sure," he finally admitted.

"Tell her she's free to come," I said, making up my mind quickly. "We can always do with more help. Besides, maybe Antoinette and Cecile will become friends."

Jacques gave me a smile as we made our way to his bedroom slowly. Personally, I doubted that the girl would be a lot of help, especially if she was anything like Antoinette. But then, a young girl in Paris would have better things to do than stay in the house all the time. I'd probably hardly ever see her. Besides, anything that made Jacques smile these days had to be a good idea.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

**November 5****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Running out of a room full of people as a sign of one's desparation was an acceptable, if rather childish way of ending a conversation. However, it left me with one more problem on top of the ones I had already had: There was no place I could run to. I didn't like my bedroom. Even though I had told Meg and Jean over and over that a small room would be enough, they had given me the biggest guest room in the house, in which I felt strangely lost.

´After all, you could indeed have guests every now and then,´ Meg had said with a wink, refusing to take the huge bed out of the room.

I knew she had referred to Erik or Raoul, but up to now, the only occasional visitor had been Philippe, in nights when not even Marielle could chase away the bad men from his dreams.

Meg and Jean had only meant well, of course, with the room as well as with the bed. Especially Meg loved spoiling me, buying everything I could possibly need as a way of distracting me from my problems. I had just been able to talk her out of purchasing a piano for my room. It was true that I enjoyed playing it every now and then these days, and Philippe had to practice as well, but we could use the piano in the living room. A piano in my bedroom would have only reminded me of Erik and his organ, and I thought of him far more often than necessary anyway.

It was interesting that no matter where I started, my thoughts tended to lead me back to my problems. In this case, my problem was called Erik. No, actually that was not true, and I corrected myself at once. The problem wasn't Erik, but me. Me and the stupid decision I had made more than two years ago. The decision I couldn't make undone now. Erik was but the cause for me to rethink the decision and the way it had changed my life and the ones of those around me.

If Erik discovered what I had done, or if I told him about it, like Mme.Giry had suggested, even the lives of the children would be affected. Feeling the urgent wish to see them, I walked down the corridor till I reached Antoinette's room, which was closest. Jacqueline had said that the children were already asleep, but I only wanted to go inside for a little while. I wouldn't disturb anyone.

Light from the corridor spilled onto the bed as I opened the door. Antoinette was lying on her belly, her arms and legs sprawled in every direction. A small foot was sticking out from under the blanket. All that could be seen from her head was a dishevelled mass of dark curls, so much like my own.

I smiled to myself. Antoinette, my pretty, self-confident daughter. What would she say if the secret was revealed? Of course I couldn't ask her directly, least of all while she was sleeping, but in my head, I spoke to her.

_What would you think, Antoinette? You're twelve years old now. You have quite a good idea of what the world is like, at least your own little world. You know who you are, and you know who your family is. All that would change for you._

_And how would the girls at the opera treat you? You've just started making friends among them, your talent and ambition has earned you their respect. That would change as well if they found out the truth, and believe me, they'd find out, sooner or later. Nothing travels as fast as gossip at the opera._

I shook my head. I couldn't do it to my daughter. It would destroy all she had worked so hard for. It hadn't been easy for her to get to know the chorus girls better. Most of them were years older than she was and thought younger girls a nuisance. But with her usual determination and her natural friendliness, she had made two or three friends. I couldn't take that away from her by revealing such excellent gossiping material. No one would care that she had nothing to do with it. They'd look down at the whole family, and her reputation would be ruined before she even had one. No, it was impossible.

"Good night, my daughter," I whispered, closing the door again.

I then made my way to the next room. Now that I had taken into consideration Antoinette's position, I had to do the same with Philippe. After all, he was just as important as his sister. His room was just a few doors down the corridor.

I opened the door quietly and peered inside. It wasn't quite as dark as in Antoinette's room. A small lamp was burning low on the bedside table. Philippe's fear of the dark had grown much better when Erik had become his teacher, but now that he had been gone for such a long time, the fear had returned. Vaguely I wondered whether it would vanish again once Erik was back.

Cautiously, I sneaked into the room, leaving the door ajar. I moved over to the bed and saw Philippe lying on his side, curled up into a ball, facing me. His features were completely relaxed, and I was relived that he didn't seem to have one of his usual nightmares. The reason became clear to me as soon as I noticed who he held in his arms. It was Gilles, keeping him safe. He had always done so.

What would my little boy say if his Uncle Erik revealed Maman's secret? Again, I tried my best to regard the situation from the child's point of view.

_You're eight years old now, Philippe. Old enough to know what is right and what is wrong. Uncle Erik taught you well. You'll know that what I've done is wrong. But are you also old enough to understand my reasons? Probably not. I hardly understand them myself anymore. What will you think of a mother who has done what I've done? Will you hate me?_

_No, of course you won't. But it'll change the way you think of me. You've grown warier over the years, but not towards your own family. That would change as well. You'd no longer know whether to trust me… whether to trust your own mother…_

I turned away from Philippe, unable to look into his honest little face any longer. Even Gilles seemed to watch me sternly. He'd never lie to my son, because Philippe wouldn't make him. But I had lied to him and nearly everyone else for years. How was a little boy supposed to cope with such news? He'd probably end up believing whatever Erik or Raoul told him, just because he needed someone he could trust.

No, I couldn't do it to him either. It would be too much for him to bear.

"Good night, my son," I murmured as I slipped out of the room again and continued my nightly journey down the corridor.

There was one more room I always visited before I went to bed, just to make sure everything was all right. I couldn't sleep in peace before I knew nothing bad had happened.

The door to the nursery stood ajar, and I wasn't surprised to find Marielle sitting in a chair between the two beds. One of the maids always stayed with the children at night, in case they woke up and cried, and since it was Jacqueline's evening off, it had to be Marielle's turn. She looked up at me as I entered the room, but her face showed no signs of surprise. She smiled at me.

"They're sleeping like two little angels tonight," she told me in a low voice. "Not even Michel has woken up once yet."

"Good," I whispered. "Listen, why don't you go to the kitchen and get yourself something to drink? I'd like to be alone with the little ones for a few minutes. I'll take good care of them."

"Of course," Marielle replied readily, standing up. "I'll be back later then." She went out of the room quietly, leaving me alone with Clarille and Michel.

I was glad that she had left so easily. It might have been strange, but I couldn't have had my internal conversation with her present. I simply wouldn't have worked.

Slowly, I walked between the beds. Both children were lying on their backs, fair hair and dark hair surrounding their little heads, hands clenched into fists at their sides.

_What would it mean to you if the secret came out, my little ones? You're only one and a half years old yet. You don't care about gossip, and your understanding of right and wrong is very limited. You don't know yet that there is something wrong in your lives, and if no one tells you, you'll probably never know it. But maybe it'll come out anyway. Is it selfish of me to want to protect my secret?_

Yes, it was, I suddenly realised. All the arguments I had collected in Antoinette's and Philippe's room had only been about me. _I _didn't want to become the target of vicious rumours._ I_ didn't want to lose my children's trust. But what was best for my children? It was something I'd have to think about some more on my own.

Hearing footsteps in the corridor, I knew it was time to leave. Marielle was about to come back.

"Good night, Michel," I breathed. "Good night, Clarille… my daughter."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Author's note:** Please pay attention to the date of this chapter! We're doing a little time warp...

**Chapter Nine**

**December 12****th**** 1892: **_Christine_

I never knew how I made my way back to Meg's home, which had become something like a home for the children and me as well. I hadn't wanted anyone to know where I had been going, so I had refused to take a coach, losing my way twice before finally reaching the right house.

It was no wonder that I hadn't paid attention to where I was going. My head was filled with thoughts of the kind that barely left space for anything else. They were chasing each other around and around in my head, making me feel dizzy. It was good that the streets in this part of the city weren't very crowded in the morning, or I might have ended up under a coach.

I couldn't believe what the doctor had told me. His words, spoken with a friendliness that had both touched and saddened me, were among the thoughts in my head.

´I can only congratulate you, Mme. de Chagny. You're with child. It'll be born sometime in June. A lovely time of the year to be born. You must be so happy. A third child will fill the lives of you and your family with even more joy.´

At that point, I hadn't been able to listen to him for another second, and I had excused myself hastily.

´Oh, I see,´ the doctor had said with a knowing smile. ´You want to go and tell your husband the good news as soon as possible.´

His assumption couldn't have been further from the truth, but I had nodded anyway, glad about the excellent opportunity to leave.

How was the doctor to know that he had just let a nightmare come true for me? He hardly knew me at all, which had just been my reason for choosing him in the first place. I had only told him the bare facts, not a single thing more than he had needed to know. To him, everything had been clear: The wife of a wealthy member of aristocracy, a woman who had already given birth to two healthy children, had to be happy upon finding out that she was with child again.

How was he to know that calling me happy was as far from the truth as calling Marielle's father an honest man? Shocked, distraught – those were the words I'd have chosen myself. I felt as if someone had hit me over the head with something very heavy.

But then, the doctor had only confirmed something that in my heart, I had already known to be true. After all, I had been with child twice before. The strange swelling sensation in my belly and the fact that I started every morning by throwing up had made me suspicious right away. Ten and six years ago, I had felt just like I did now, and the results had been Antoinette and Philippe.

Yet unlike at those times, I was alone now. Raoul had recently found the house of an old woman to live in, and we hardly ever saw each other, and Erik had left the city more than two months ago. There was no one to share my… I paused, my hand stretched out towards the gate as I thought about which kind of feelings I had for the little new life inside me, now that the stunned feeling was slowly subsiding.

My other hand came to rest on my belly. I couldn't feel anything yet, and still something was there. Something that would come out of my body in June. A nice time of the year indeed. The birthday would be sometime between Antoinette's and Philippe's, which was nice as well. Perhaps it would already be warm by then – a fact that I could hardly imagine while it was so cold – and the baby would feel the sunlight on its skin…

It was a nice thought, a happy thought. And in that moment, I realised that I was looking forward to having the child. I had never been one of those women who knew exactly how many children they wanted and were disappointed if it didn't work, for one reason or another. Raoul and I would have probably had more children already, if it hadn't been for the fact that he was home so rarely. We had never had a lot of time for ourselves.

And now that he was gone, I was with child. It seemed a cruel irony of fate. Shivering in a sudden blast of icy wind, I recalled that it was December, not June, and hurried to get inside, thinking longingly of a cup of hot tea. I wondered how long I had been standing outside, staring into space and pondering. I could only hope that none of Meg's neighbours had seen me, or they'd think me very peculiar.

However, although my stay outside had made my feet grow very cold, at least I knew how I felt about the news I had been given: I was happy. The circumstances could have been more ideal, yes, but I was willing to cope with whatever came up, for my child's sake. There was nothing to worry about.

It was a pity that Antoinette and Philippe were at their teachers' houses at the moment. I'd only be able to tell them in the afternoon, when they'd come back. Well, maybe that wasn't so bad after all. I wasn't sure how they'd react. It would be better to start with a person who'd be just as happy as myself: my friend Meg. Fortunately, she was at home. I had seen her before I had left for the doctor's, and she had said that she wasn't planning to go out at all today.

One of the maids, Marie, opened the door for me.

"Good day, Madame," she greeted me, curtseying.

"Good day, Marie," I gave back, slipping out my coat and handing it to her. "Do you happen to know where Mme.Tavoire is?"

"Of course, Madame," she replied. "She is in the library. Would you like me to fetch her?"

"No, no," I said. "I'll go to meet her. But if you could bring a tray with tea upstairs in half an hour's time, it would be very nice."

I made my way upstairs, glad that Meg was not in a room I didn't know. There were still quite a few of them, and I found it highly embarrassing that I had to ask a servant for the way, no matter how many times Meg and Jean told me it had been just the same for them. The house was so big that three families could have easily lived in it. Even though it wasn't born yet, Meg's baby had already been given a room, and I was sure there'd be enough space for a second bed to stand in.

When I reached the door to the library, I hesitated for a moment. Beneath all the cheerfulness, I had just felt something else. A different kind of emotion was nagging at my mind. It was as if I had forgotten something important, but I pushed the thought to the far back of my mind. If it was that important, I'd remember it sooner or later. I didn't want anything to disturb my good mood.

Meg answered at once as I knocked.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Christine," I replied. "I'm back. Do you mind if I come in?"

"Not at all," she called, and I entered the room.

My friend was sitting in an armchair at the fireplace, a book open on her lap. I settled down next to her, giving a content little sigh as I felt the warmth from the fire.

"Ah, that's much better," I said. "You wouldn't believe how cold it is outside."

"That's why I'm sitting here," she explained. "I was on the balcony before, to get a little fresh air, but I had to go back inside after just a few minutes because I couldn't bear the cold. Ovid has done his best to warm me up." She indicated her book, which I recognised as the _Metamorphoses_. "But the fire has been doing the job much more nicely."

We both laughed. Meg's passion for Ovid was one of our many favourite subjects of discussion. She claimed that reading his work helped her in every situation, though apparently not in this one.

"But I don't think you've come here to find out what I'm reading," Meg said after a few moments. "You look as though something had happened. Am I right? What is it? Will you finally tell me what you've been up to this morning?"

I gave another laugh, looking at my eager best friend. In such moments, she was no longer a grown-up woman, a wife and soon-to-be mother, but the girl I had shared a dormitory with at the opera – curious and excited. And I was feeling just the same. She'd be so happy for me, I knew it.

"I've been to the doctor's this morning," I started. "No, it's nothing bad," I added quickly, noticing that Meg looked worried. "On the contrary: I'm… I'm with child, Meg! I'll have a baby! In June! Just a few weeks after yours will be born!"

Meg beamed at me. She jumped up and pulled me to my feet as well, embracing me.

"A baby!" she cried. "Oh, that's wonderful, Christine! Congratulations!"

She let go of me and looked at me closely.

"These are fantastic news," she said. "We'll raise our babies together."

"Yes, they'll become best friends, just like we are," I agreed. I felt dizzy with joy because Meg had reacted exactly the way I had hoped she would. "Our lives will be perfect. We'll – What's wrong?" I interrupted myself as I saw the expression on Meg's face. The smile had vanished. She was frowning and seemed to be thinking hard about something. "What is it?" I asked uncertainly.

"Christine…" she muttered slowly. "Who is the baby's father? Is it Erik or Raoul?"

I felt as if a leaden weight was dropping into the pit of my stomach. Now I knew it had been just that question which had caused the nagging at the back of my mind. I hadn't even thought about who the baby's father was. Hastily, I did the same calculations Meg had probably done moments before. If the baby would be born in June, it had been conceived in September, and the only times I had been with a man then had been around the day of the fire…

And then I realised why Meg was looking so shocked. During that time, I had been with both Erik and Raoul.

"I don't know who the father is," I breathed, feeling very cold all of a sudden. "I just don't know it."


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

**December 12****th**** 1892: **_Meg_

I watched my best friend in her despair, feeling like a monster because I had pointed out the one big flaw in her perfect future. But then, what else should I have done? Remain silent and pretend not to have noticed anything? Or even lie? No, that would not have been me. I had always been an honest person… even though the truth did hurt every now and then.

After she had stared at her own hands in silence for a while, probably thinking about her situation, Christine looked up at me. All the joy had vanished from her face. Tears were glistening in her eyes, which seemed much larger than usual.

"I'll have a child without a father," she muttered. "I'll be all alone… all alone…"

"You will not be alone," I said firmly. "You'll always have Jean and me to rely on… and my mother as well. We'll support you, no matter what will happen. But first, you have to decide what you'll do."

Christine stared at me blankly, as if I had spoken a language she didn't understand.

"Do?" she repeated faintly.

"People will notice you're with child," I explained slowly. "Think of how quickly they noticed it in my case. Before long, they'll look at you and see it, and they'll ask questions. They'll start wondering why you're not with your husband while you're about to have his child. No one will believe that you have to stay here and help me when sooner or later, you'll need help yourself."

I sighed, watching our plan, which had worked so well in the last weeks, shatter before my mind's eye. How could Christine hope to have any more time to think about who she wanted to be with in the future with all those new problems? People's opinion would be quite clear: A woman who was with child belonged to her husband, not to her best friend.

"But it may not be Raoul's child after all," Christine argued in a small voice.

"That's exactly what everyone will think," I told her, slowly understanding the full extend of the situation. "And it'll make them question our version of events from the start. They'll think Raoul left you because you're having another man's child, and I took you in out of pity. Or maybe… maybe they'll even think Jean's the father, and that's why you stay here."

I interrupted myself, swallowing hard. Surely my imagination was running away with me. No one would believe that… or would they? I realised that my friend's condition not only endangered her family, but also mine.

"I don't want anyone to think badly about Jean and you, after all that you've done for me and the children," Christine declared. Her voice rose, and she sounded slightly hysterical as she went on: "If you'd rather have us leave, just tell me. We'll find something else."

´Yes, make her go!´ a little voice in my head whispered. ´You've worked so hard for this family. Don't let her destroy it. You're not responsible for her problems!´

I fought back the surge of selfishness quickly. Yes, I wasn't responsible for what my friend had done, but I cared about her. What kind of a friend would I have been if I had thrown out Christine, now that she needed me more than ever before?

"You don't have to go," I said, trying to sound as if the idea was utterly ridiculous. "You'll stay here, where there are people who'll help you. We'll get through this together. Maybe I've looked at it the wrong way. We'll worry about other people later. What you have to decide first is what to tell the people close to you. What will you tell your children and my mother? What will you tell Erik and Raoul?"

Christine didn't reply. She was chewing her bottom lip, looking utterly miserable and lost, now that her momentary outburst of energy was over. A hot wave of sympathy rushed through me, erasing every last trace of selfishness. It occurred to me how lucky I was. I knew that my child would have the best father and the best grandmother. I knew that it would have everything it needed. I had every reason to be whole-heartedly happy.

For my friend, however, the prospect was bleak. After the initial joy she had shared with me, the only thing she was facing now was a whole lot of problems. Her child would get everything it needed as well – I'd make sure of it – but its future family would not be that happy. If anything, the child would serve as a constant reminder of Christine's unfaithfulness.

There were many people who thought that a woman who had betrayed her husband had to suffer from terrible consequences, but I did not belong to them. In my opinion, Christine had done nothing to deserve such a fate. All she had done was sleep with a man she had been married to at the time, albeit symbolically, and with her husband. She was not a bad person, not a harlot who seduced men for her own pleasure, and I knew I'd do anything to help her make the right decision.

"Well, if you want to hear my opinion," I started. Christine looked at me, nodding eagerly. "You have to tell Erik and Raoul first," I continued. "Apart from yourself, of course, they're the most important people in this… situation. I can see three options for you: You can be honest and tell them you don't know who the father is, or you can tell both of them they're the father, or else neither of them."

"Both of them?" she repeated, frowning. "Why should I do that? Wouldn't it make things even more confusing?"

"Not necessarily," I replied. "Erik isn't here in Paris, is he? And even if he were, he and Raoul hardly ever speak to each other. You could tell them, then wait until after the birth to see who the child looks like, and then tell one of them you've made a mistake."

Christine shook her head.

"It would break their hearts if I got their hopes up like that," she said quietly. "How would it be for Jean if you told him you had made a mistake about your child being his? Besides, Raoul might not talk to Erik, but he'd tell everyone else that I'm with child again. Perhaps it would even be in the newspaper. And Erik still has his contacts in Paris. What would he do if he found out that I'm pretending to have both his child and Raoul's? No, that's impossible."

"Well, then tell neither of them they're the father," I suggested, shrugging. "You can do nothing wrong with that answer. No one will be disappointed."

My friend shook her head again.

"You said yourself that people will soon notice I'm with child," she argued. "And if I say that neither Erik nor Raoul's the father, they will wonder who is. Do you want me to invent a third man, another one I've betrayed my husband with? That would only lead to more lies."

I sighed. Trying to help Christine wasn't easy. No matter what I said, she found something to say against it. The worst thing about it was that she was right. Up to now, my suggestions really hadn't been too good. I had to try and do better, or I'd be a very poor advisor indeed.

"What about the truth?" I asked cautiously. "Tell the men that you're with child, but you don't know who the father is. That won't make them too upset. I mean, Raoul does know you… erm, were with Erik, doesn't he?" Christine nodded glumly. "And Erik knows you were with Raoul," I continued. "So there won't be a problem. They'll understand that they just have to wait until after the birth, or maybe a little longer. If the child looks like Raoul, it's his, and if it…" I paused for a moment, thinking about how to put it. I could hardly tell my best friend openly about the possibility that her child could be deformed. Finally, I settled for: "…and if it doesn't look like Raoul, Erik's the father."

"And what if the child looks like me?" Christine muttered. "Think of Antoinette! No one could tell from her appearance that she's Raoul's daughter. Or think of yourself! You told me that you look exacly like your mother used to, without any trace of your father. And with some children, there's no telling who they look like until they're much older. I cannot make Erik and Raoul wait for such a long time. Besides…"

"Besides what?" I asked warily. Which other obstacle had Christine found? Would it make everything even more difficult than it already was?

She threw me a sideways glance.

"I'm sorry to tell you, but your whole approach can't possibly work the way you thought it would, no matter which one of the solutions I chose," she said with an apologetic smile. "Of course Erik and Raoul would be the first ones to tell, you're right about that. But just like they can't wait until after the birth, no one else can. It's nice to say that we'll worry about other people later, but we have to worry about them now. As soon as the words gets out that I'm with child, and you know how quickly that can happen, people will want to know why I'm not staying with Raoul, just like you said. It doesn't depend on what I tell the two men, you see. Everyone will think Raoul's the father, because he's my husband and fortunately, no one knows about Erik and me."

"Well, in that case, the problem is already solved," I told her matter-of-factly. I couldn't see why she was still worried. "If people think the child is your husband's, they won't suspect you've been with someone else. There will be no gossip, and I thought that was just what you wanted to avoid. Everything will be all right."

"_Nothing_ will be all right," Christine stressed. "Don't you understand, Meg? What I want to avoid is being forced to make a decision before I've thought about it properly. If anyone finds out I'm with child, I'll have to go back to Raoul, and I don't want that. I want to be with a man because it is my wish, not because I have to. And then there's Raoul himself to consider. If the child turns out to be Erik's… I couldn't do it to him…"

She buried her face in her hands, looking even more miserable that she had done before. All my helpful suggestions had been for nothing. All I could think of saying now was:

"My mother will come back soon. She'll find a solution. She always does."


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

**December 12****th**** 1892: **_Christine_

All in all, I thought my meeting with Mme.Giry could have been a lot worse. She had not been appalled by my story, as I had secretly feared, nor had she asked unnecessary questions or demanded explanations. She had merely listened to everything, from the beginning to the end, her face calm, as it was most of the time. If she had felt any particular emotion during my tale, she had not shown it.

When I had said everything I had had to, she had not offered a solution right away. It would have probably been asked too much, so soon after hearing my story. What she had done had been ask for some time alone to think about everything. She had walked out of the library, announcing she'd go for a walk in the afternoon sun.

Meg and I had stayed behind, sipping the by-now cold tea a maid had brought a while ago and nibbling the occasional biscuit. I strangely felt like a criminal at my trial. Everything had been said, and now I was awaiting for the judge to come back with my verdict. Would it be positive or negative? Would it give me the chance to solve my problems or merely add to my misery?

My friend was still sitting in the same armchair I had found her in when I had come here. Every now and then, our glances met, and she gave me a smile. I wondered whether she could feel the tension that was almost palpable in the air. Meg had helped me as far as she had been able to, telling her mother what we had discussed before, explaining why certain options were impossible. I had been very grateful because I wouldn't have been able to repeat it all over again.

The clock chimed four. Mme.Giry had arrived at about two, shortly after Meg and I had eaten lunch, neither of us taking more than a few bites, and she had left about half an hour later.

"She's gone for more than an hour," I remarked, breaking the silence. "If she doesn't come back soon…"

I didn't have to finish the sentence. Meg knew as well as I did that the children would return from their teachers at around five. Once they were here, a quiet conversation would be impossible. Especially Antoinette had an overwhelming urge to move after all the time of sitting still. The children often played all over the house, running from room to room. We wouldn't be able to talk until they were in bed, and I didn't think I could wait that long. I was nervous enough already.

Meg opened her mouth to reply, but in that precise moment, the door was opened and her mother came inside. The cold had made her skin flush light pink, but she looked just as calm as ever, not at all like a woman who had just spent a lot of time thinking about a difficult problem. She walked over to the second armchair, which I had vacated for the sofa, and sat down.

A moment passed in tense silence, then she spoke:

"I have found a solution, Christine."

Neither Meg nor I asked what it was right away, as we would have done it if the ballet mistress had been one of us. We had learned to respect Mme.Giry, to give her the time she needed to collect her thoughts. We knew that she'd go on in her own time. And that was what she did, after finding the most comfortable sitting position and smoothing out every last crease in her already immaculate dress.

"I cannot say that I am pleased with my solution," she began slowly. "It involves lies, deception and hiding, all of which I despise. You know my view on those topics: It is best to behave in a way that makes lies unnecessary. "

Meg and I nodded. It was something we had heard many times from her. It had never worked too well for me, though. One way or another, there had always been hiding in my life, and also lies. I was surprised that Mme.Giry suggested anything that had to do with such things.

"However, it is the only way I can think of," she went on. "There would be other solutions, but in all of them, the decision as to which man you want to stay with would be made for you, and as I understand it, that is exactly what you wish to avoid."

Again, I nodded, glad that Mme.Giry had understood my worries and didn't seem to think them ridiculous.

"This is the way I planned it," she said, and Meg and I leaned forwards in our seats. "You, Christine, won't tell anyone else that you're with child. It was very thoughtful of you to go to a doctor who doesn't know you or your situation. We won't have any problems with him telling anyone. We'll have to let one or two other people in on the secret, but not until later. Your Jean, Meg, will be one of them, for it concerns him as well."

"In which way does it concern him?" Meg asked, a suspicious frown on her face. "You don't want him to pretend he's the father, do you? Christine and I have talked about it, and – "

"I was not about to suggest any such thing," Mme.Giry replied calmly. "At least not in the way you think. You see, you and Jean are going to become the parents of twins."

My friend and I gaped at Mme.Giry. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Meg run had hand over her belly.

"But Mother, I'm not going to have twins," she muttered. "I went to the doctor only last week, and he said he could feel one child, not two."

"Oh, doctors can be mistaken," Mme.Giry told her airily. "Believe me, you're going to have twins."

She looked from Meg to me, and I understood.

"You want me to give my child to Meg and Jean?" I whispered, so shocked that I hardly managed to get the words out. I had never said that I didn't want the child at all, had I? How could she suggest anything like that?

"Yes and no," Mme.Giry answered. "You'll pretend not to be with child. It'll mean that you won't be able to leave the house for a few weeks or even months before the birth, so no one will see you. Meanwhile, Meg will prepare herself for the birth of her twins. She'll take your child as well if she goes outside, and everyone will think she has given birth to two babies."

At that point, she seemed to have noticed how stunned I was, for she assured me:

"You child will remain yours, Christine. It will be registered as your child. We'll leave out the name of the father. No one ever reads these official papers, and the child itself won't need them until its wedding."

I nodded. That part of the plan sounded good to me. I didn't need everyone to know I was with child, and it would save me a lot of trouble with the potential fathers, as long as… A suspicion rose in me.

"Mme.Giry, does this mean I'm not allowed to tell Antoinette and Philippe?" I asked.

"I'm afraid so," she replied gravely. "They're wonderful children, and you know I'm very fond of them, but they can't be expected to keep such a big secret to themselves. It would be too much for them. And one word to the wrong person could be the end of the entire plan."

I swallowed hard, turning away from the others as sadness gripped my heart like a cold hand. I had so been looking forward to telling the children about their new sibling, and now they wouldn't know it at all. They'd see the little one grow up without knowing they were its brother and sister.

"I wish there was another way, child," Mme.Giry said in an unusually kind voice that made me glance over to her again. "And if you have a better solution, do tell me. I'll support you, no matter what you want to do, as long as it doesn't go against my priciples."

I gave her a faint smile, thinking of the many principles her own plan would violate. And still she was willing to do it for me. I had to be strong as well. Her solution may not have been the best one, but it was all we could come up with. I simply had to accept its disadvantages.

"All right," I muttered. "We'll do it in the way you planned it. Who else can we let in on the secret?"

"Jean, like I said before, and also one of the maids," Mme.Giry replied. "We need someone who'll support us with the children, especially in the first time. Didn't you once tell me that Jacqueline helped the midwife when you had Philippe?"

"Yes, she did," I answered. "She even helped when some of her younger siblings were born. I'm sure she'll help us as well, and she'll keep the secret. Erik himself told me before he left that he no longer expects her to pass information on to him."

"We'll tell her then," Mme.Giry decided. "And I know just the right midwife. She's very old and hardly ever leaves the house, except to deliver babies. She won't tell anyone."

"But how can we keep the children and the other servants from noticing that there will be two births?" Meg argued. "My child will be born in April and Christine's in June."

I snapped my fingers. Hearing the months had reminded me of something.

"Raoul will be doing business in the south of the country for three months at that time," I said. "He told me so the last time we met. If we send the children and one or two servants with him and tell the rest not to come here for a couple of weeks, no one will notice anything."

Mme.Giry nodded.

"So be it," she said solemnly, and once more, I was reminded of a verdict.

I nodded as well, but at the same time, my hand moved down to my belly. No matter what would happen, at the moment I was glad that the child was simply mine.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

After hours of tossing and turning, I finally gave up. I wouldn't fall asleep anymore, not as long as all those thoughts were in my head. It wasn't the first time either. It was true that I couldn't remember the last time I had had a whole night's sleep, but it wouldn't have been just to blame the children for it. Even when they were perfectly quiet, I often lay awake in bed, pondering on the decisions I had made and on those I hadn't made.

It was no wonder that I felt sleepy during the day. A doctor I had consulted more than a year ago had given me drops that were supposed to help me sleep, but I hadn't taken them more often than once or twice. They had made me sleep, yes, but they had also given me terrible nightmares, and in the morning, I had woken up with a dreadful headache. And once Mme.Giry had pointed out that the drops could be bad for Clarille, I had thrown them away.

Larisse often made me a tea of special herbs. She swore that she had learned the recipe from her grandmother, whose husband had often had sleepless nights. Yet no matter how well the tea might have worked for him, it didn't have the same effect on me. It didn't make me much sleepier than I usually was, and if I drank it shortly before going to bed, like Larisse had recommended it, I spent half the night going to the bathroom, which didn't make sleeping any easier.

Staring up at the dark ceiling, I thought I knew what made my sleeplessness so frustrating: I was aware that Erik could have cured it right away, but he belonged to the people I couldn't possibly ask for help. It would have been so easy for him. If I had told him about my problem in a letter, he'd have probably sent me something in the next parcel. Yet first, he'd have wanted to know why I wasn't sleeping well, and since I didn't want to lie to him, I had never asked him at all.

And now he'd come back, which wouldn't improve the quality of my sleep either. On the contrary: It was the mere thought of him that kept me awake tonight. I recalling being with him – thankfully not in this bed – kissing him, touching him. Was it possible that something much more important than we could have known had happened at the time? Was it possible that a new life had begun, that evening in the coffin or that night in the bed?

I sighed, lifting my hand to brush a strand of hair out of my face impatiently. I had asked myself these questions a thousand times already, just like I had wondered whether anything could have happened while Raoul and I had been together on the night of the fire. The questions varied, but the answer was always the same: I didn't know it.

It would have been so much easier if Clarille had decided to look like Erik or Raoul. Yet even after one and a half years, she stubbornly looked like no one but me, with the dark curls, the brown eyes and the small nose. Since Meg and Jean were both fair-haired, they had invented an aunt on Meg's side of the family who had had long, dark curls. So far, no one had questioned their story, especially since it was supported by Mme.Giry.

Naturally, this had given me a new problem: If Clarille continued looking like me, there'd come a day when someone would notice that she resembled a younger Antoinette. Fortunately, as Mme.Giry had assured me the first time I had pointed out that possibility to her, the chances of that happening weren't very big. Antoinette herself spent little time with the children, and with the exception of Jacqueline, the servants hadn't been with us when she had been little, so they wouldn't notice the peculiar likeness between the two girls.

The only real danger was Raoul. He might not have been with his children too often because he had been working so much, but I was sure that he'd spot the resemblance between Antoinette and Clarille. That was why I kept him away from the nursery, which was fairly simple because he wasn't very interested in Clarille and Michel anyway. He had seen the children once or twice, a few months after their births, but at that time, they hadn't looked like anyone in particular.

It sometimes hurt me that Raoul showed so little interest in the children, one of whom could be his daughter. I often had to remind myself that he didn't know it, that he didn't mean to be thoughtless or cruel to me. Why should he care about other people's children when he had enough problems with his own family?

Yet I also thought of how loving he had been after the births of Antoinette and Philippe, how he had carried them from room to room, showing them the world, how he had held them as if they had been the most precious and wonderful things he had ever seen in his life.

It was exactly the way Jean looked at Michel. He also held Clarille in his arms – given the fact that he was supposed to be her father, it would have been strange if he hadn't done it – but he never looked at her quite like that, with pride and a little incredulity. But then, why should he? He was not her father, and I couldn't and didn't expect him to act as if he were. I was aware that many men wouldn't even have done the things he did for my daughter. I could count myself lucky that my friend had married such a nice man.

And still… I felt as if I had to suffocate with the injustice of it all. Why didn't my child have a loving father, like Antoinette and Philippe, like Michel? What had she done to deserve a life built on lies and deception? She had done nothing wrong.

But I had. The truth appeared in my head, merciless and unbidden as ever. I had done something wrong. I had been with two men without even thinking about the possible consequences. I was so angry that I could have kicked myself. After all, I hadn't been a young girl at the time. I had known in which way children were conceived. I just hadn't thought about it. There had been so many other things in my head, so much fear, anxiety and excitement, that I just hadn't thought about it.

And my child had to suffer the consequences of my behaviour. She would never have a father, neither Erik nor Raoul. I had often tried to imagine them as fathers and was convinced that they would have been wonderful, each in his own way. Yet the question remained which of them would also be willing to raise a child who was not his own.

It was another matter I had pondered on many times, in those sleepless hours before I could finally get up. The answers varied greatly, depending on my contact with the men at the time. When another of Raoul's and my attempts at a conversation had ended in icy silence, I thought that such a stubborn man would never accept Erik's child. Yet when I hadn't heard anything from Erik for a couple of weeks, I wondered whether I should expose a child to such thoughtlessness.

I hated those hours in which my thoughts went round and round in my head till I barely knew what I was thinking about at all. It was another reason why I wanted to sleep so badly. Yet the more desperately I tried, the less it worked. Sleep was nothing that could be forced into coming. Either it was there or it was not.

Today, it was not. I was tired, weary beyond measure. I needed sleep, but even more than that, I needed peace of mind, and no doctor and no tea in the world could help me with it. I just had to live without it… or didn't I?

Suddenly, following instincts rather than conscious thoughts, I sat up and got out of bed, throwing the blanket aside carelessly. I stepped to the window and drew the curtains. A thin reddish line was appearing at the horizon, just visible between the trees in the back garden. A new day way approaching, and for the first time in months, maybe even years, I was filled with the idea that a new day could also mean a new chance.

I opened the window and took a deep breath. The early morning air was cold on my bare arms and in my body, tingling like finest champagne. It purged my head of all superfluous thoughts till only the essentials remained.

It was not too late. I couldn't make the past undone, but I could still change the future. My child could still have a father. I might never find out who it actually was, but I was able to find out which one would be willing to be it. I'd simply ask them. I'd tell Erik and Raoul the whole story and see how they'd react. Suddenly, in the light of the new day, I could see the path ahead of me.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

"You've decided to _what_?" Meg asked me in an excited whisper, leaning closer to me over the armrests of our chairs.

There would have been much better places to tell her about my new plan that the little shop of our favourite seamstress, but I couldn't have waited any longer. I had been bursting to tell someone all morning. The children seemed to have taken much longer than usual to leave the house. I had rarely been so glad to finally see them go. This was the first moment today when I had Meg to myself, on one of our trips into the heart of Paris without Clarille and Michel.

"I'll tell Erik and Raoul the truth about... well, about what happened," I replied just as quietly.

My gaze was fixed not on my friend, but on the back door, through which the seamstress had just vanished. The woman always reminded me a little of a mouse, not only because of her brown hair and the huge dark eyes, but also because she moved unbelievably quickly and was very curious. There was no telling when she'd be back with the pieces of fabric she wanted to show us.

Talking to Meg about such a topic here was a little dangerous, but it was a risk I was willing to take, as long as it meant that we didn't have to worry about a servant listening at the door. Moreover, neither of us would have been as stupid as to explicitely name the subject we were discussing. We had grown extremely wary.

"But have you thought about it?" Meg wanted to know, frowning.

"Of course I have," I replied, unable to keep the edge of irritation out of my voice. We had spent months considering every possible aspect of what we had been doing and saying. Did my friend really suspect I could have decided something that important _without_ thinking about it? "I thought you'd be pleased," I added. "It's just what your mother suggested last night, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes," she admitted. "I'm wondering whether you've thought about the consequences, that's all. A lot of people will be affected by your decision, not only Erik, Raoul and you."

"I'll ask them not to tell anyone else," I assured her. "I just want to see how they react. If their reaction is negative, we'll go on the way we always did. Nothing will have changed. And if one of them reacts positively… well, in that case, our situation will become better, not worse. You see, there's nothing to worry about."

"Do you really think they'll tell no one, just because you ask them to?" Meg muttered, shaking her head and throwing me an almost pitying glance. "Christine, we're talking about a very delicate matter here. It's not something that can be said and forgotten, just like that. It could change their lives. You once said yourself that Raoul would tell everyone if he knew it, and Erik… well, I suppose he doesn't have that many people to tell, but he'd make sure the word spreads, if only to make a fool of Raoul."

"How dare you talk about Erik like that?" I exclaimed, unable to keep my voice from rising ever so slightly. "And Raoul! You make it sound as if he were a gossiping old woman! They both know how to keep quiet!" Meg lifted a hand in a pacifying gesture, but I couldn't stop myself. "I only want to follow your plan!" I went on angrily. "But I can't do anything right, can I? First your mother says I should tell the truth, and if I decide to do so, you tell me it's not right either! You demand that I make up my mind, but you change your opinion every other day!"

"Christine, please," Meg said in a deliberately calm voice, but I could hear that she was annoyed with me. "What I meant was that it's naïve to believe that Erik and Raoul will keep quiet if you tell them something like that. It's not an ordinary secret. My mother suggested that you should tell _everyone_ the truth. That's a big difference to what you're about to do."

"Of course it is," I snapped. "You said it, so it has to be better. Of course you're right. I can't even understand your mother properly, whereas you do everything perfectly. You're the perfect mother, the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, and I'm nothing of it! I don't know why you want to be with your less-than-perfect friend at all…"

I took a deep breath, ready to go on. It felt so good to get rid of everything that had been on my mind, to have someone I could shout at to relieve my tension. Yet as I opened my mouth, the seamstress returned, her arms full of fabric.

"Did I hear shouting?" she asked with an innocent smile.

"People were yelling at each other out in the street," I explained without a moment's hesitation. My ability to tell convincing lies had become even better over the last years. It was nothing I was particularly proud of.

The seamstress peered out of her front window hopefully, probably expecting to see a fight or an accident. Yet there was nothing except for the usual babble of voices. However, it was possible that someone had been yelling before. It happened a hundred times a day.

"Of course, of course," the woman muttered. "That must have been what I heard. Now, if you'd look here…"

She spread out different kinds of fabric on the table in front of us and started explaining their properties and uses. Yet I could still see her glance from Meg to me and back and knew she had heard enough to grow curious.

Well, that was nothing new, I tried to comfort myself. It didn't take much to stir that woman's curiosity. She was a constant source of gossip, and when the material for rumours was rare, she also invented new stories. Even if she did spread rumours about an argument between Meg and me, few people would believe it had really taken place. Fortunately, we had not said enough for her to guess what we had been talking about.

My friend and I avoided each other's eye as we looked at the fabric. We politely talked about which one would be best for our new skirts and blouses, and finally, the attention of the seamstress was drawn to our purchases rather than our personal lives. She pulled out a small book and began to take notes on what we wanted to buy.

Meg and I, however, could not be fooled that easily. We knew perfectly well that we had had an argument, no matter how much we tried to conceal it now. Of course it had not been our first argument. People weren't friends for years without ever having a certain amount of tension between them. Still I felt considerably shaken by it. Did Meg really think me naïve because I believed in Erik and Raoul? _Was_ I naïve to believe in them?

No, of course not. I had decided to tell them, and I'd do so. It didn't mean I had to tell everyone else, like Mme.Giry had obviously wanted it. Uttering the crucial words in the presence of Erik or Raoul would be difficult enough without having to do it over and over. Besides, I didn't want to cause a scandal. I'd keep it all quiet until…

…until what? I wasn't too sure myself what I wanted to happen, but I guessed I'd know it once it had happened. I was waiting for some sign that it was safe to tell the full story to everyone. All I knew was that I couldn't do so before my child had a father.

I picked up a piece of fabric at random and held it against the light, seemingly examining the colour, but really thinking about who to tell first. I'd have preferred to choose the man who'd react more positively, but naturally, there was no way of knowing which one would be it. I'd just have to try and hope for the best.

One thing was certain: Raoul was the easier man to contact. All I had to do was write him a note saying that I wanted to see him. Given the fact how rarely that happened, I was sure he'd come as soon as he could. It was more difficult with Erik. There was nothing I could do to influence when he'd be back in Paris.

Still, the longer I thought about it, holding the piece of fabric at a different angle to avoid Meg's gaze, the more certain I grew that Erik was the one I had to tell first. After all, he was used to dealing with situations that would have been too much to bear for most people. More than a decade ago, I had left him, thus breaking his heart, and still he hadn't given up on me all those years. So the news that he might be a father wouldn't upset him too much, would they?

I knew I shouldn't have felt that way, but even before he was back, even before I had said as much as a word about the subject, I was desperately afraid of losing him, and also Raoul. I had been alone for such a long time. A child could bring me closer together with one of the men, but it could also scare both of them away. It was strange to think that such a little being had such a great power over us adults.

My darling Clarille. She was probably just playing on the floor of the nursery, under Marielle's watchful eye, completely oblivious of the role she was playing in this game that was called our life. And if it were for me, she'd never find out. I'd do anything I could to ensure that no one ever told her about the way she had started her life. Once she'd have a proper father, whether or not it really was her father, everything would be all right again. My life would change with hers, and it would become better than it had ever been before. Surely my sleeplessness would be over as well, now that I had finally decided to do the right thing. No one would make me change my mind again.

"I'll take this one," I told the seamstress, handing her the piece of fabric. "I want you to make me a skirt from it."

It was only then that I truly looked at it. It was a deep vivid blue, just like the sky shortly before dawn, with a thin red line at the edges. It was a sign, it had to be. For once, I was doing the right thing.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Meg and I didn't exchange a single word on our way back. She kept throwing me meaningful glances, as if expecting me to apologise and say that I had been stupid. I, on the other hand, didn't think of giving in. I was right, and soon enough, she'd realise it as well. Then she'd be the one who had to apologise. Yet I knew that telling her so would have only made her angrier, so I remained silent.

Before I had had the conversation with Meg, I had planned to tell Mme.Giry, Jacqueline and possibly also Jean about what I was up to. Yet after the negative experience with the woman claiming to be my best friend, I thought it best to keep quiet till I had spoken to the men. I wasn't exactly afraid of other people's reactions, but I could do without more arguments.

Having made up my mind gave me a really good feeling. I was confident that finally, the future would be shaped according to what I wanted. One of the men would surely accept Clarille, and then we'd be a proper family. I wasn't sure what I'd tell Antoinette and Philippe, but one way or another, it would all work out.

By the time we arrived home, it was almost noon. Our trip to the seamstress had taken nearly all morning. Surely lunch would already be waiting for us on the table. Meg's housekeeper was very strict about the times when meals were ready. Jean sometimes jokingly said that he felt as if he were back to living with his mother, who seemed to have been a similarly strict woman. Personally, I found Mme.Bajard rather annoying. I was sure that she'd have checked whether our fingers were dirty before she allowed us to eat if she had dared do so.

As we left the coach and walked the short distance to the house, Meg asked:

"Shall we forget the argument? I still think you're making a mistake, but it's your decision, not mine. Besides… well, you know Erik and Raoul better than I do. Maybe you're right after all."

I could tell that she had thought quite a while about the little speech. I could also tell that she didn't really believe I was right. However, I didn't want to have the same argument all over again, so I nodded, and we smiled at each other. We both hated arguing.

To my surprise, Mme.Bajard opened the door herself. Usually she regarded such tasks as beneath her and sent one of the other servants. And even if I hadn't known that, one glance at the woman's face would have told me that something out of the ordinary had happened. She looked angry and agitated.

"We have guests," she announced, not bothering to greet us. The way she said ´guests´ made it sound as if they were a particularly annoying sort of insects that had settled down in our house. "I tried to hold them back, I told them you wouldn't approve, I said they should come back later, but that man… he wouldn't listen. He just came in. And your servants…" She threw me a glance that spoke a very clear language. "They wouldn't support me. They even claimed they knew the man. They said he was a… friend of yours."

My heartbeat sped up. It had to be Erik. Apart from him, only Raoul could have come to see me, and Mme.Bajard would have never called him ´that man´. She knew perfectly well who he was, and for some reason, she approved of him. His charms and good manners had probably done what none of us others had managed to do: win her affection.

But why was I standing here, thinking about Raoul and the housekeeper, when Erik was inside?

"Where is he?" I asked eagerly.

"In the sitting room," Mme.Bajard answered, disapproval etched into every syllable she uttered. Then she turned to Meg. "Mme.Tavoire, can I have a word? I don't mean to criticise you, but you should have told me before that you were expecting guests. What if they wish to stay for lunch? I haven't prepared enough…"

I didn't wait for the end of her lament. I had heard all I needed to know. Erik was in the sitting room, and that was where I wanted to be as well. Walking past the still-talking housekeeper, I made my way down the corridor. My whole body was humming with excitement. Wasn't it a strange coincidence that Erik had arrived now of all days? If I had needed any more confirmation that I was doing the right thing, this would have been it. I'd pull Erik into a quiet corner on the first possible occasion and tell him about Clarille.

But first of all, I'd see him. It had been more than two years since the last time, and it felt much longer. Briefly I wondered what Erik would look like. He probably hadn't changed at all. He was the most ageless person I knew. I hadn't changed a lot either. I had put on a little weight when I had been with child, but most of it had vanished quickly after the birth.

I looked down at myself, feeling a little self-conscious. If I had known what would happen today, I'd have put on my best clothes, but as it was, I wore a perfectly ordinary dress. I considered going to my room and getting changed, but dismissed the idea quickly. I'd never be back before Meg and the housekeeper entered the room, and I so wanted to be the first to greet Erik. I kept walking, comforting myself with the thought that Erik had seen me in far worse conditions.

The door to the sitting room was closed as I reached it, which in itself was extraordinary. Mme.Bajard always left doors ajar if she could help it, not out of curiosity, as she stressed, but out of interest to know what was going on inside – whatever the difference between the two things might be. Erik, considerate as always, seemed to have noticed and prevented that behaviour by closing the door. He was one to notice such little things, even though he didn't even know the housekeeper. They had never met. The woman had still been recovering from her broken bone when Erik had come to us after the fire. She had barely left her room at the time. It had been so nice and quiet back then.

In general, I despised Mme.Bajard's curiosity, but today, I'd have appreciated being able to listen at the door myself. I'd have liked to know what was going on inside. Was Erik alone or was there someone with him, keeping him company? Jacqueline, maybe? But no, that was impossible, I reminded myself. Jacqueline had brought the children to their teachers in the morning and planned to visit her sister later. She wouldn't return until the afternoon.

Determined not to let Erik wait any longer, for surely he was waiting for me, I opened the door and stepped inside. And there he was, standing at the window all by himself, with his back facing me.

"Erik!" I called, my voice shaking slightly with excitement. "Erik, I'm here!"

He turned around slowly, and I let out a gasp of surprise. Gone was the white mask. In its place, there was a completely normal right half of a face.

"How… what…?" I mumbled, unable to form a coherent thought.

Wordlessly, Erik beckoned me to him. The nearer I drew, the less perfect the illusion became. What I had taken to be a completely new half of his face was in truth yet another mask. But it didn't look like a mask at all. If I hadn't known that it couldn't be real, I'd have never guessed so. The colours, the shape… it was fantastic.

Tentatively, I stretched out a hand and touched his cheeks, first the left one, then the right. They were both warm. The mask seemed to be so thin that it allowed the normal body temperature to seep through the material.

"Where… where did you get this?" I whispered, utterly mesmerised.

"I made it myself," Erik replied. Unlike his appearance, his voice hadn't changed at all. It gave me the same sense of warmth and security it always had. I barely managed to listen to the rest of his answer. "I used materials from different countries and a variety of techniques. It took me months and months, but now it's finished. It's better than the best mask I ever made before."

"It is," I agreed. "Is that the reason why you've come back? To show me your new mask?"

"Among other things, yes," he answered. "But first…"

He stretched out his arms and pulled me into a loving embrace. I noticed that his scent was slightly different from what I remembered. He smelled of herbs, of strange flowers and a little salt water. It was an intoxicating mixture.

I allowed myself to enjoy the embrace for a while, then I recalled what I had decided to do and freed myself from his arms. For a few moments, I had been distracted by the new mask, but I knew what I had to do. His new appearance would only make things easier.

"There is something I have to tell you," I said quietly.

"And I'll be delighted to hear it," he gave back pleasantly. "But first, there is someone I'd like you to meet." With these words, he turned me around gently.

As he did so, I realised we hadn't been alone after all. A girl of about sixteen years was sitting in an armchair facing us, looking at me with polite interest. I had been so eager to get to Erik that I hadn't noticed her. Yet now that I had done so, I wondered how I could have ever missed her.

She was one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen. A mane of glossy black hair framed a slim face with almost white skin and huge eyes the colour of pale sapphires. There was no telling just how long the hair was, but it seemed to reach over her shoulder and far down her back. Her plain black dress was almost too big for her, for she was petite, with the kind of narrow hips I had never had, not even before the births of my children.

The girl beamed at me, showing two rows of white teeth. Erik was beaming as well. He walked over to the armchair, leaned down and kissed the girl on the cheek. She giggled slightly.

"Christine, I'd like you to meet Marcella," he said with a certain note of pride in his voice. "My new… angel."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

"Marcella, this is Christine Daaé," Erik went on after a few moments had passed in an extremely uncomfortable silence. He spoke more slowly than usual, pronouncing each word carefully. "La donna di cui ti ho raccontato molto," he added more quickly.

The girl nodded.

"Sì, sì," she said with a charming smile. "Mi sono pensata che deve essere questa donna. Non sono stupida, sai."

Erik gave a laugh and patted her shoulder gently.

Then she looked at me and got up from the armchair.

"It is nice meeting you," she told me, making a polite little curtsey.

I didn't react. I was still too shocked by what I had just witnessed. It was as if I had landed in a very unpleasant nightmare. Had I really seen Erik kiss that girl, and had the girl really giggled, as though she were enjoying herself? It had to be real. Even my worst nightmares had never been this cruel. I felt a strange cold seeping through my clothes and reaching out for my very core. What on earth was going on here?

Marcella's smile faded slightly. She turned back to Erik.

"Che cosa è la problema?" she asked uncertainly. "Ho fatto un sbaglio?"

"No, no, you haven't made a mistake," he assured her hastily. He walked up to her and took her hand, his gaze fixed on me. "And there is no problem either. Christine is just a little surprised about seeing us. You didn't expect two guests, did you?"

I could barely keep myself from bursting into hysterical laughter. ´A little surprised´ was more than a slight understatement. With a lot of effort, I pulled myself together for the moment. I was determined not to cry, not in front of Erik and that pretty young girl.

"You didn't mention you were bringing someone else," I said, trying my best to sound casual rather than accusing.

"Oh, I didn't want to spoil the surprise," he gave back pleasantly. "But I did tell you there was something I had to do before I could come back. Well, that something was persuade my dear Marcella to accompany me. She's from the very south of Italy, you know. I spent a few weeks there. One day, I heard her sing on her way to the market and knew I had to meet her. A couple of days later, I talked to her, and she agreed to have me as her teacher. You should hear her voice! It's wonderful. I know you'll like it as well. Well, I expect you'll hear her, sooner rather than later. Once she starts singing at the opera…"

"At the opera?" I repeated faintly.

"Why, yes, of course," Erik replied smoothly. "She'll begin with small roles, but with the right teacher, which she has already found in me, she'll become a divine singer. She certainly has the potential. In a few years' time, she could be the diva's understudy, or even a diva herself. We can always do with gifted young singers at the opera."

Marcella, who had watched our conversation with a frown on her face, tugged at Erik's sleeve and threw him a questioning glance.

"Her French isn't too good yet," he explained with a kind smile at the girl. "When I met her, she didn't speak it at all, but she improved quickly, and now that we're here and she'll hear nothing but French all day long, she'll learn even faster. She's very intelligent. Her abilities would have been wasted in her home town. All she could do there was milk cows and feed chicken."

To my relief, Erik did not elaborate on the wonderful talents of Marcella and the way he had tested her abilities, but started talking to her in rapid Italian, doubtlessly telling her what we had just spoken about.

I turned away from them and tried not to listen to their voices either. It was all too much to bear. It was indeed worse that a nightmare, for I wouldn't wake up and know that everything was all right. Nothing was all right.

I only started listening properly again when Erik switched back to French.

"So I thought she could come here every now and then," he said. "You know, to see a few friendly faces and practice her French. It wouldn't be so difficult for her here because you could help her. Your Italian always was very good. As your teacher, I should know."

I gave him a faint smile, feeling a little flattered despite myself. My Italian wasn't good at all. I had learned the basic principles of the language during my training as a singer, but I had never had more practice that exchanging a couple of sentences with the Italian singers. And now, years after I had had my last conversation in Italian, I doubted that I'd remember much more than a few words. Erik just wanted to be kind.

A new, exciting thought then entered my head. Was it possible that he just wanted to be kind to Marcella as well? Maybe he didn't really like her. But then, why did he look at her like that? I knew those glances only too well. Once, Erik had looked at me in the same admiring way. No, I couldn't delude myself. I had seen enough people in love to know what they looked like.

And the girl clearly was in love with him as well. I could tell from the way she clung to his every words, smiling and laughing at the least occasion, sometimes even touching his arm or taking his hand as they talked and talked. Watching it made me feel sick. I didn't know how much longer I'd be able to bear it without throwing up or bursting into tears.

"I don't want her in this house!" I hissed. "And I don't want you in the house either. Go!"

Erik merely stared at me. So did the girl, although she was probably just trying to work out what I had said. I didn't give either of them the chance to react. I could feel that I was dangerously close to tears and knew I had to get out. I ran to the door and pushed it open, applying far more power than necessary.

A yelp of pain came from behind the door. I had pushed it right into the face of Meg, who had just been about to enter the room. She emerged, holding her hand over her nose.

"I came as soon as I heard," she mumbled, her voice muffled behind her hand. "It's so typical of Mme.Bajard to tell me a thousand things, only to come up with the only important part at the very end. Erik is here with a girl… but I guess you already know that," she added after a brief glance at my face.

"Oh yes, I do," I said sharply. "And what a lovely girl she is! Better than me in every respect imaginable! Don't you want to go inside and meet her? She might even turn out to be a better friend than I am! At least she won't disagree with you – she doesn't speak enough French to do so!"

Taking her hand away from her face, Meg gave me a sympathetic smile.

"Don't be ridiculous, Christine," she muttered. "You know very well that you're the best friend I could ask for. I'd never want anyone else."

I smiled as well. It was nice to hear that at least Meg didn't seem eager to find a replacement for me.

"Do you want me to throw them out of the house?" she asked quietly. "I could do so, you know. It's my house."

I nodded. Meg would certainly have more success than I had had.

"But do it politely," I told her. "I don't want them to…"

"I understand," she said. Of course Meg knew that I didn't want them to find out how hurt I was. Friends simply knew such things.

I stepped aside and allowed my friend to enter the room. I heard her call,

"Erik! How good it is to see you again. Oh…"

That must have been the moment in which she had noticed his new appearance. I hadn't mentioned it during our brief conversation. Somehow, it hadn't seemed very important, not compared to the arrival of that girl.

I didn't pay attention to what Erik said. I could do without hearing his explanation about the mask and Marcella a second time. I stared into the deserted corridor, wondering dully why the housekeeper wasn't here. It would have been a scandal to her liking. I could only guess that Meg had sent her away, probably to keep her from hearing what was going on and telling the other servants. It made me feel marginally better to know that at least I wouldn't get everyone else's opinion on the subject. The situation was difficult enough as it was.

"Christine?" A warm hand was placed on my shoulder. "Don't you want to come back inside? There are so many things I haven't told you about my travels…"

Hearing Erik's familiar voice, I thought longingly of the one thing I had wanted to tell him. I'd never do so now. For once, I had made up my mind, and it had all been for nothing. Anger streamed through my body like boiling water. If Erik didn't care about me anymore, it was fine with me. I wouldn't care about him either.

I spun around to face him, his hand slipping from my shoulder.

"No, thank you," I said stiffly, staring at a corner of the doorframe rather than his face. "I have a lot of other things to do. You can't expect me to stop everything else, just because you're there. I didn't even know you were coming, and today is a very busy day for me. I have to… write a letter to Raoul."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Erik jump slightly as I mentioned the name. I gave me a certain satisfaction to show him that he was not the only one who could find someone else.

"We've grown so much closer again over the years," I went on pleasantly. "He's such a lovely man… and he has always been there for me."

"Indeed?" Erik muttered. Then he straightened up. "Well, that's nice for you," he said briskly. "I certainly don't want to keep you any longer than necessary. Just tell me when the children will be around."

"They'll be here at about half past five," I replied.

"I'll come back at that time, then," he announced. "May I have dinner with you? It would be nice to see everyone else."

"Would you bring Marcella?" I wanted to know, though the answer was clear to me.

"Of course I will," he answered. "I can hardly leave her alone on her first evening in a foreign country. Besides… she and I belong together now. You won't get me without her."

"In that case, I can do without your company as well," I said coldly, turning away from him. "Good day, Erik."

**Author's note:** The conversation of Erik and Marcella translates as: "The woman I've told you so much about." – "Yes, yes. I thought it had to be that woman. I'm not stupid, you know." Later, Marcella says, "What's the matter? Have I made a mistake?".


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

I had always been a good actor. It was an ability that had come in very useful a thousand times over the years. One moment, I could have a certain opinion, only to change it into a completely different one a moment later. I could be predator and prey, guilty and innocent, all in one. None of these masks had ever come into conflict with my true self, though. I used them the the way I pleased, putting them on and discarding them again, just like an actor when he leaves the stage.

My current role was crucially different, different in so many ways. Never before had I regarded acting as betrayal. It helped me, sometimes even saved me, but it never betrayed anyone. Now that basic principle had changed. By pretending to be in love with Marcella, I hurt Christine. I hurt the woman I loved, intentionally and over and over again.

Of course I had known I'd hurt her. It was the reason for playing the role in the first place. What I hadn't considered was how difficult it would be for me. On the way to the opera, I kept reliving the scene in the sitting room.

I watched the excited expression on Christine's face give way to incredulity as she saw my new mask and heard myself give the necessary explanations. At that time, I had got a first idea of how hard it would be. Without thinking, I had embraced Christine, and it had felt so good. It had felt better than anything I had experienced in the last two and a half years. How I had longed to kiss her, to tell her how much I loved her and hear her say the same to me!

But I had done no such thing. Instead, I had forced myself to concentrate on the elements of her behaviour that irritated me. Hadn't it been very superficial to ask about the mask first? Shouldn't she have asked me about my travels or wanted to know how I was? What had made the mask so important?

As I thought about it now, I called myself ridiculous. Of course the mask had been important for her. After all, it had always been a topic between us. It was one of my most distinguishing features. It was no wonder that she had been surprised by its absence and the new one in its place. I could hardly call her selfish because of a little curiosity, especially since I had always approved of it.

What had happened afterwards? Oh yes, she had tried to tell me something, but I had interrupted her and spoken of my news instead. I wondered what it had been that she had been so eager to say, but no matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn't possibly guess it. None of her letters, and I knew every single one by heart, had given me a clue about something special she might want to tell me.

Then I had introduced her to Marcella. I had pictured that moment many times in my mind, ever since I had first had the idea, and it had happened almost exactly the way I had imagined it. The expression on Christine's face, the surprise in her eyes… for a moment, I had felt nothing but triumph.

´Look at me, Christine!´ I had wanted to call out to her. ´This is what comes from playing with my heart! I don't need you anymore. There are other women who are much more willing to be with me than you've ever been.´

Utter nonsense, of course. I did need Christine. Not one day had passed when I hadn't thought of her longingly, remembering her soft voice and her sweet smile… the smile that had frozen when she had looked at Marcella, who had seemed to shrink under her gaze. I had done my best to make Christine more sympathetic by telling her about the girl's story, but it had not worked.

I suspected that in my enthusiasm, I had gone a little too far. I shouldn't have told her that I planned to let Marcella sing at the opera. I simply hadn't been able to resist the temptation of torturing Christine that little bit more. Besides, it was true. Introducing Marcella to the managers was one of my plans for the immediate future. And wasn't it better for Christine to hear it from me than from anyone else?

No, I realised with a start. Actually, it had been worse. Christine had to think that the girl was about to take over her position in every aspect of life. It was fortunate that I had stopped myself before I had mentioned my idea to have her teach the children Italian. If I had done so, Christine would have probably slapped me in the face, and rightly so.

All the time while I had talked to Marcella, translating the things she hadn't understood, I had thought about whether I wasn't making a big mistake. The whole idea of making Christine jealous had suddenly seemed ridiculous. Even if it worked, the damage done would be bigger than the questionable advantages.

That had been the reason why I had approached her at the door after she had let Meg in. By stretching out my hand to her, I had extended the proverbial olive branch. At that point, it hadn't been too late. I could have still turned the tide and told the truth. Then my beloved had mentioned the Vicomte. The moment that man's name had fallen from her sweet lips, I had known there was no going back. She had confirmed what I had secretly feared all along.

It had happened. I had been gone too long. Christine had been right. She indeed needed someone who was there for her all the time, not someone who left her just like that, because he thought he still had things to do in the world. I had been too selfish, putting my well-being before hers. And now I had got what I deserved for abandoning the woman I loved.

Oh yes, I still loved her, more than ever. All the time while I had been miles and miles away from Paris, I had missed her so much, and now that I was finally close to her in a physical sense again, I felt even further away from her. The irony was not lost on me.

Still, in a strange way, I thought I had done the right thing. At least I had shown Christine that I could do the same thing she had: find someone else. And after all, it was not as if my plan had changed anything about the sad facts of her new life. The Vicomte and she had grown closer again, whether or not Marcella was with me. I had made the situation neither better nor worse.

"Signor Erik?"

I jumped slightly and spun around in my seat. I had been so lost in thought that I had almost forgotten where I was and that there was someone with me.

"What is it?" I bellowed angrily.

A moment later, however, I regretted my harsh tones. Marcella had shrunken back in fear and gazed at me, her eyes wide.

"Scusami," she apologised in a hurried whisper. "Ma…" She gestured at the building outside the window.

It was only then that I noticed we had stopped moving. We had reached the opera.

"No, no, _I'm_ sorry," I told her quickly. "I didn't mean to shout at you. I was just… thinking."

She nodded. Like always when I talked to her in French, however, I wasn't sure whether her nodding meant that she had understood what I tried to tell her or whether she merely understood the single words. I tended to assume the former. It would have been nice to be truly understood for a change.

Marcella turned away from me and looked out of the window. I smiled to myself. She was such an obedient girl and such a fast learner. I had only had to tell her once not to disturb me while I was thinking, and she had followed the rule ever since. It was one of the things that made her presence so pleasant. She didn't argue endlessly about everything, but did as she was told.

It all had to do with her upbringing, of course. None of the children in her huge family had been allowed an own opinion, least of all the girls. It was good that I had taken her away from there. Already her father had talked about how she'd end up as an old maid if he didn't find her a husband soon. I suspected he had already had someone in mind, probably a man who was just as loud and disrespectlful towards women as himself.

Marcella didn't know under which circumstances I had brought her away. She had no idea that I had told her father I had taken a liking to his pretty daughter and wanted to make her my mistress back in France. It had been my only chance. He'd have never let her go for something as insubstantial as singing lessons and a possible career on the stage. In his opinion, the only career women needed was becoming wives and mothers. His one request had been that I wouldn't send Marcella back home after I was, as he had put it, finished with her. I had no intention of doing so. If I could help it, she'd never see that dreadful man again.

"Let us go then," I said.

The girl seized the hand I offered her, and I helped her out of the coach. There was no luggage to be unloaded, for I had brought everything to the opera before we had visited Christine. It was all stored away in a room only I had the key for, waiting to be unpacked later.

Unlike myself, Marcella had not been in the building yet. She looked around with huge eyes as we entered it through the main entrance. It was very quiet in these hours between the end of the morning practice and the beginning of the afternoon rehearsals. Most people had left to eat something, and the few who were still there were nowhere to be seen.

I led Marcella directly to the stage, assuming that it was the part of the building she was most anxious to see. It indeed seemed to fascinate her. Her gaze darted from left to right and back, and she took a few hesitant steps to the middle of the stage.

"I will sing here?" she whispered, apparently mesmerised by the splendour.

"You will," I replied, smiling at her, remembering how often her voice had eased my mind. Perhaps it would work here in Paris as well. "Right now! Sing for me, la mia cara!"


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Somehow, I had managed to endure lunch without shouting or bursting into tears. I hadn't been hungry at all, but I had eaten enough not to cause curious questions. Anyone who knew me well would have seen my distress, yet fortunately, only one of those persons had been in the same room. Mme.Giry was still at the opera and wouldn't come back until the evening, and Jean was working.

Only Meg, Marielle and the little ones had been keeping me company, and the latter had been so loud that no one had paid much attention to me. They had even cheered me up temporarily, but when Meg had pulled Clarille onto her lap to help her eat, my heart had grown heavy again. I knew how important it was to keep up the façade in front of Marielle and the housekeeper, who had come in every other minute to ask whether we needed anything else, yet that knowledge hadn't made it easier to bear. I wasn't even allowed to feed my own child.

Thanks to the presence of Clarille and Michel, lunch had been over quickly. No one could sit at the table for long while they were around. Michel had insisted on eating without help, which always resulted in a lot of food landing anywhere but in his mouth. This time, he had managed to knock over his plate, sending large amounts of spinach onto his trousers. Fortunately for him, he had been pushing around the food on his plate so long that by the time it ended up on his lap, it was stone cold.

Of course, that simple fact hadn't kept him from screaming in surprise and indignation, and Clarille had joined in almost at once. Though they were no twins, they often acted like it. Naturally, they had no idea how much easier they were making life for us by their identical behaviour. I guessed it was a simple reaction to growing up together.

In the end, Marielle had taken Michel upstairs to wash him and give him clean clothes, and Meg and I had settled down in the sitting room with Clarille. I had been reluctant to go there, and as soon as I opened the door, I knew why. It might have been strange, but I felt as if Erik's presence had changed the room. I imagined his scent still hanging in the air, and I spent quite a while staring out of the window like he had done it, before Meg took my hand firmly and made me sit down.

"So… whar are you going to do now?" she asked.

"If I knew the answer to that question, I'd be a lot happier," I replied sardonically, before I could remind myself not to let out my frustration on my poor friend. Even the argument we had had earlier didn't seem important anymore. "I'm sorry, Meg, but can't you see that I have no idea? I'm not like you or your mother, who come up with a new plan or suggestion at once. I've hardly had time to think about anything. It all happened so quickly. In one moment, I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and in the next, I knew nothing at all."

"It must have been such a shock for you." Meg mused. "I just don't understand how Erik could be that insensitive. Bringing that girl with him and introducing her to you, as if it were the most normal thing in the world… I don't understand it. He and I had become friends in the weeks before the fire, and I really thought I knew him, not as well as you do, but at least a little. But now…"

She shook her head.

"He doesn't care about me anymore," I said bitterly. "He doesn't care whether he hurts me by what he does. Well…" I lifted my head and forced myself to look defiant. "I don't care about him either. If he can hurt me, I can do the same with him. And I did. Hearing about Raoul and me really seemed to get to him."

"Hearing about Raoul and you?" Meg repeated, frowning. "What are you talking about? There's nothing going on between Raoul and you… or is there something you haven't told me?"

"No, of course not," I replied. "You'd be the first to know if anything like that had happened. No, I only told Erik that Raoul and I had grown closer again to see the expression on his face. We talked about it right after you had come into the room. You must have heard us…"

"I didn't," she muttered, suddenly looking concerned. "I was trying to talk to the girl, not that I learned all that much. You know my Italian has never been too good. But Christine… I don't think that was such a brilliant idea."

"Why not?" I asked, feeling strangely reminded of the conversation we had had before. "If he can hurt me – "

"That's not the point," Meg interrupted me. "Forget about who hurt whom for a moment and concentrate on the facts: Raoul and you have not grown closer. On the contrary, I'd say you've grown further apart. In a way, he's just as far away from you as Erik. Don't you think Erik will notice such a blatant lie?"

"Oh…" I made, clapping a hand over my mouth.

I hadn't thought that far. When I had talked to Erik, saying that Raoul and I were together again had felt like the right thing to do. I hadn't considered that once I had started telling that lie, I'd have to go on with it. But of course Meg was right. Erik wouldn't even have to look very far to get answer to the questions he'd undoubtedly have. All he'd have to do was ask the children about how their Maman and Papa were these days. They'd tell him that Raoul and I hardly spoke to each other, and Erik would know that I had lied to him.

"It's not too late for the truth, you know," Meg said with a kind smile. "You could still tell him everything. He'd understand why you lied to him. He has always understood you."

"Yes, he's very understanding," I muttered, taking my hand away from my mouth. "I suppose I could tell _him_ … but what about the girl? I couldn't say a word as long as she's around. They'd probably laugh at me. Foolish Christine, who has to invent a relationship where there is none, just to make her former teacher jealous! And it didn't even work properly! That Marcella is much better than me. Erik must have been pleased to get rid of me and take her instead!"

"Christine, stop!" Meg said firmly. "You're scaring Clarille."

I looked down at the soft carpet in front of our chairs and saw my daughter staring up at me with huge fearful eyes. My loud voice, so different from what she was used to, had indeed scared her. At once, I pulled myself together.

"Oh, come here, my darling," I cooed, picking her up and cradling her in my arms. "I didn't mean to frighten my poor little girl. Is it all right again?"

Clarille watched me anxiously for another few moments, then her face relaxed into a smile.

"Maman…" she mumbled, making me smile broadly as well.

The little ones were among those few we had never lied to. It would have been much too cruel, for them as well as for us. They had always known who their respective mother was. Up to now, no one had found it peculiar that Clarille often preferred my lap to Meg's. Little children simply knew what they wanted, and it was best not to interfere.

Meg and I watched my daughter for a while. When the little one's eyelids drooped and she leaned her head against my chest, ready to take her usual afternoon nap, Meg spoke again.

"Erik would never laugh at you, you know he wouldn't," she assured me in a low voice. "And he wouldn't allow the girl to laugh at you either. Even if he doesn't… doesn't…" She glanced at me anxiously, apparently struggling to get out the right words.

"…doesn't love me anymore," I said flatly.

She nodded, the expression on her face half grateful, half sad.

"Even if, for some reason I truly don't understand, he doesn't love you anymore," she went on. "It doesn't mean you're no longer important to him. If you weren't, he wouldn't have come to see you. He deserves the truth, Christine."

"What he deserves is a good kick into a region of his body that I won't name in front of the child," I muttered savagely. "He only came to see me because he wanted to show me the new girl at his side… and to find out when he can meet the children, of course. At least he still cares about them."

I stroked Clarille's hair absent-mindedly, thinking.

"I can't do anything to keep Antoinette and Philippe from seeing their Uncle Erik," I finally said. "And I wouldn't want it either. They love him, and he has always been good to them. But matters are different with Clarille. I won't tell him anything about her."

"It's your decision," Meg agreed, though she looked doubtful. "But will you tell Raoul about Clarille then?"

I nodded slowly.

"Perhaps he'll turn out to be more understanding than I thought he would," I mused. "And perhaps…" I looked at my friend. "Perhaps the news will indeed bring us together again," I went on excitedly. "Then I wouldn't have lied to Erik at all, at least not really, and Clarille would have a father. It would be perfect."

Meg gave me a smile, but the frown hadn't vanished from her face. Perhaps she remembered how often my life had been anything but perfect.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

Afternoons on which I stayed at home always were very quiet these days. I usually sat in my study, poring over a boring business paper and taking the occasional note. M.Levarne, my business partner, who had become the father of his third child only a few weeks ago, said he envied me for the solitude I had. According to him, it was so loud at his home that he couldn't even hear himself think, and a quiet hour was often interrupted by his wife Juliette calling for him. The birth had been demanding, and she still had to lie down a lot, which meant that he had to take care of the older children.

I'd have swapped with him any time. His situation might have been less than ideal, but to me, it sounded like paradise. Peace and quite were all very well at the right time, but these days, the house was nothing but peaceful and quiet. The thick carpets lying everywhere muffled the footsteps of the few people living here, so that even if someone was around, one couldn't hear it. It was almost a little unnerving.

Of course I couldn't tell my business partner about how lucky I thought he was. He was a very friendly man, but I didn't know him well enough to discuss such problems, especially since it would have meant admitting that I had problems in the first place. Like many people I worked with, M.Levarne didn't find it a bad idea that I had my own house now. A little extraordinary, maybe, but essentially not a bad idea.

´I know at least a dozen men who'd give anything to be in your place,´ he had told me only last week. ´You have found the ideal solution for combining work and family. You have a place where no one can disturb you, but you can also see your wife and the children whenever you please. I wish I was so lucky.´

It was another topic I couldn't speak about. I couldn't possibly tell him that while I saw my children as often as work allowed it, I hadn't had a decent conversation with Christine in months. Kissing her felt like something out of a distant dream. Yet the last thing I wanted was talk about it and cause even more rumours.I was glad that at least a few people didn't doubt that Christine and I were still happy together.

Realising that I was thinking about my wife rather than reading the contract in front of me, I blinked, trying to focus on my work. Yet after just a few moments, I caught my thoughts straying again. There was nothing fascinating about the conditions under which I'd lend money to two men who wanted to restore an old theatre. It only made me think of how often I had been to the theatre with Christine, and how long it had been since the last time we had done anything together. These days, I went to the theatre alone, just like I did most things alone.

I sighed deeply. This was getting me nowhere. I wasn't closer to deciding whether I'd sign the contract than I had been when I had sat down with it an hour ago. But then, I didn't have to finish it today anyway. I'd meet M.Levarne in the morning, and we'd have to discuss the matter in detail before signing anything. So I could as well stop now.

Having made at least that decision, I felt better at once. I got up from my chair, stretching my arms over my head, groaning. Just like the entire study, the armchair had once belonged to the husband of the elderly lady who had lived here. I had no idea how he had died, but I strongly suspected it had had something to do with sitting in this chair. Every time I stood up from it, my back felt as if it had aged several years. I knew I'd have to buy a decent chair sooner or later, but I was reluctant to do so. It would have meant admitting that I was here to stay.

I often tried to delude myself, pretending that once Christine and I had settled our little differences, we'd find a new home together, just us and the children. It didn't work too well, though. My powers of imagination were limited, at least when it came to something as far-fetched as achieving that. It had been so long since the last time we had had a conversation that had lasted longer than two minutes. I had gone so far as to practice what I wanted to say, but as soon as I saw Christine, I forgot everything and grew tongue-tied and shy, like a little boy visiting his stern old aunt.

Loud voices from outside the study pulled me out of my less-than-pleasant thoughts. Not even the thick carpets could muffle such loud noises. If I had still been working – or at least pretending to work – I might have found the sounds annoying. Today, however, I welcomed every distraction. No matter who had just entered the house, listening to them couldn't be worse than my sombre thoughts.

I went to the door and walked outside quickly, listening hard. As I had suspected, they were coming from downstairs. There were two people speaking, a man and a woman. I could identify Jacques' low, rumbling voice right away, but it took me a moment to realise that the other one belonged to Naniette, the woman who came here a couple of times a week to cook, clean and do other things Jacques was no longer able to.

As I couldn't understand what they were talking about, I made my way towards the stairs, but stopped before my foot came into contact with the first step. They all creaked terribly, and I didn't want to be spotted. I almost laughed loudly about my behaviour, sneaking around in my own house. But then, it was a well-known fact that servants talked more freely among themselves. If there was a new rumour about Christine and me, I wanted to know it, and Naniette and Jacques would never tell me out of their own accord. I knew that much from experience. They only wanted to protect me. So the only way for an honorable man like me to find out about gossip was eavesdropping.

"So I went to pick up M. le Comte's new cuff links," Naniette was just saying. Her voice sounded breathless with excitement, and I could tell that my first suspicion would probably turn out to have been correct. Surely the mere act of fetching my cuff links hadn't made the woman so excited. Something else must have happened. "And just outside the shop, I ran into Madame… Madame… I can't recall her name, the housekeeper of the place where M. le Comte's wife and the children are living at the moment."

"Mme.Bajard," I whispered automatically, leaning over the balustrade. Gossip coming directly from Christine's new home was even better than rumours from the street.

"Anyway," Naniette went on. "We started talking a little. She knew who I work for, of course, and I sensed that she was really eager to tell me something. Well, and after a while, she did tell me." She paused.

"What did she tell you?" Jacques asked. It was astonishing how much a simple question could tell, if only one knew a person long enough. I could hear that my old butler was torn between his general hate of gossip and the urge to find out anything that could be important for his master.

Naniette waited another few moments, then she blurted out:

"She told me that a man came to see M. le Comte's wife this morning! A strange man, dressed all in black, with a fedora and a cloak… She said the Comtess was very eager to see him, too."

I had to clutch the balustrade for support as my head started spinning. The Phantom was back. And Christine had been eager to see him. Of course she had been eager. She had probably waited for him to come back every day since he had left. That was why I had never been given another chance. Her heart had already been taken.

"But there's more," Naniette said, her voice – if possible – even more excited than before. "The man – "

I never heard what else the Phantom had done, for the woman was interrupted by a knock at the door. I seized the chance to come out of hiding. I had heard more than enough. As I walked down the stairs and approached the door, Naniette and Jacques jumped slightly.

"M. le Comte!" they exclaimed in almost perfect unison.

"Does no one want to answer the door?" I asked sternly, making it clear that I was not in the mood for questions as to how much I had heard of their conversation.

Since they both stood rooted to the spot, I opened the door and found myself face to face with a young girl. Her long red hair was shining even in the dull winter light, and her green eyes were fixed on me with such a penetrating gaze that I felt slightly uneasy.

"Erm… how can I help you, Mademoiselle?" I asked when I had found my voice.

"I'm Cecile," she replied. "The niece of Jacques Devoirelle. This is the right house, isn't it?" She threw a glance at the street behind her, apparently looking for a sign.

I was too surprised to say something, but it didn't matter, for Jacques had already limped forwards and enveloped the girl in a one-armed embrace.

"Cecile!" he muttered. "My, how you've grown! How old are you now? Fifteen? Sixteen?"

"I'm twenty-one years old, Uncle Jacques," she corrected him, smiling gently. "You could never remember my age, not even when I was little."

"Forgive an old man's mistakes," he told her. "I can't say I'm not pleased to see you, girl, but may I ask why you're here? I only sent a reply to your letter this morning. You can't have received it already."

Cecile frowned.

"But I thought that if you didn't reply, it meant there had been no problems and I could come here," she whispered. "Oh, and now I've just turned up without invitation, and you don't want me, M. le Comte. What am I going to do now?"

Her huge eyes gazed at me miserably. They were very pretty, just like the rest of her. I only needed a moment to decide. One image of Christine and the Phantom, happily united, was enough.

"The first thing you'll do is have a cup of tea with your uncle and me," I told her, smiling. "Then you'll unpack your bags and settle down in your new room. Naniette, do we have any cake left for our guest?"


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I left the house at around half past four in the afternoon. I had thought for quite a while about the right time, and there didn't seem to be a better one that this. The last thing I wanted was being at home when Erik and that girl came back to see the children. It meant leaving before Antoinette and Philipe returned from their teachers, which was something I didn't like doing at all. But then, with all the excitement about Uncle Erik, they'd probably hardly notice my absence.

There was always the possibility that Raoul wouldn't be home either, of course. He could be working or meeting his business partner. He could have even left for an early dinner appointment. Still, I had decided against sending him a note and asking him whether I could come to see him. I had simply been afraid of another rejection. I had already planned that if he wasn't there, I'd go and have a cup of tea somewhere. Anything to avoid seeing Erik.

I had also decided against taking Clarille with me. She was a very sweet girl, but she could also be demanding and noisy, which wouldn't provide the best circumstances for a long conversation with Raoul. Besides, I didn't want to present his daughter as a wailing child who got onto his nerves at once. He had always been patient with Antoinette and Philippe, but I couldn't expect him to be equally patient with a child he had just met.

So it was just me in the coach, sitting behind Meg's coachman, who hadn't spoken a word since I had told him Raoul's address. He always was rather quiet, and I enjoyed the silence. A person talking all the time would have only annoyed me today. Another advantage of the man was his complete lack of interest in gossip. The secret of where I was going was safe with him. I could have told him to take me to the depths of hell, and he wouldn't have cared at all.

I only had a very vague idea of what I'd tell Raoul, so I used the time in the coach to think about it. Well, I did know that I wanted to tell him about Clarille being his daughter, but I wasn't sure how to put it. After all, I didn't want him to collapse with shock when he heard the news. I wanted him to be happy, to welcome his second daughter with open arms. I was aware that such a reaction was probably asked a little too much, but maybe for once, reality would be just as nice as my dreams.

I had to approach the subject cautiously, that much was certain. It was not something that could be talked about casually, within the first minute after my arrival. I was determined to say it this time, though. If I had learned anything from my negative experience with Erik, it was that no matter what Raoul would say, I'd tell him my news. I wouldn't be distracted a second time.

"There's something I have to tell you," I muttered under my breath, thinking that a little practice couldn't be wrong. Tht first sentence had been easy, but how would I go on? How was I to explain what I had done? "The truth," I reminded myself. "Just tell him the truth."

But what if he'd grow angry? What if he'd accuse me of lying to him for more than two years?

Well, I hadn't been lying, at least not strictly speaking. Raoul had never asked me whether Clarille was his daughter, so –

"Oh, stop it!" I told myself wearily. This was ridiculous. Of course Raoul had never asked me anything like that. How on earth had he been supposed to guess I had become a mother for the third time, when we had worked so hard on hiding it? He wasn't a mind-reader.

I simply had to tell him the truth and hope he wouldn't grow angry. I so wanted him to be pleased, to say that he'd care for the child, no matter if she was his or not… and I also wanted him to care for me. I was tired of being alone, of pretending to be happy while trying to hold back tears. I wanted to be truly happy again.

And I wanted Raoul. Perhaps this was the best solution. I had been trying to make up my mind as to whether I wanted to be with Erik or Raoul for such a long time, but I had never found a real answer to my questions. Perhaps I'd just let the facts decide: Erik had found someone new. He hadn't cared about what I had been trying to tell him. Raoul, on the other hand, was still my husband. He'd be happy to talk to me, happy to come back. Perhaps this was all for the best.

Besides, being with Raoul again would have a lot of other advantages as well. The longer I thought about it, the more I found. First, I wouldn't have lied to Erik about him and me. I was sure that once Raoul and I were a proper husband and wife again, he wouldn't mind saying we had been together for a little longer than it had actually been. What difference did a few days or weeks make to him? To me, however, they made the difference between telling the truth and lying.

And of course no one would doubt who Clarille's father was, not even Erik. I'd be able to show her to him, and all he'd see would be my child. I couldn't rule out the chance that he'd be suspicious and ask when she had been conceived, but I had already thought about it. I'd tell him that it had happened when Raoul and I had met a week or two after the fire. Not even a doctor could tell the date of conception more precisely, and Erik wouldn't be any the wiser. He'd never suspect that he could be the father as well.

I leaned back in my seat, congratulating myself. This time, I had planned everything beautifully. I had been wrong to assume Erik would be the better person to tell first. How could I had expected to know what he was like, after more than two years with hardly any contact? He had changed so much… I winced, feeling the sharp sting of disappointment in my heart. I still wasn't certain whether I loved Erik, but I had harboured deep feelings for him, and he had hurt me very much.

But I couldn't and wouldn't care about that now. I had to think about the future. In a way, Erik's coldness had helped me. I hadn't liked to consider it, but if I had told both men about Clarille, there had always been the possibility that both reacted positively, and then I'd have had to make a decision all over again. Yet there would be no decision necessary now. Raoul was the only I'd be with.

In fact, I thought as I glanced out of the window at the almost dark street, Raoul was the one I'd be with very soon. As far as I could tell, we had nearly reached his new home. I had never been there myself, but I knew the neighbourhood. It was a nice part of Paris, close enough to the heart of the city to be lively, but not as crowded and noisy as many other streets. I'd have liked to live here myself, though not necessarily in the house Raoul had bought. The children had told me how huge and frightening it was. I could only hope it wouldn't have the same effect on me.

The coach stopped in front of one of the houses. The driver turned around and announced our arrival, in a voice that had gone raspy from the lack of use.

"When would you like me to pick you up, Madame?" he finally muttered.

"I don't know how long it'll take," I said uncertainly. "Could you simply wait for me here?"

"Of course, Madame," he mumbled, his eyes already half-closed. It wasn't hard to tell how he'd spend the waiting time.

I left the coach and walked the short distance to the house, very aware of my heart hammering in my chest as if I'd run all the way here.

´It's Raoul,´ I tried to comfort myself. ´He's your husband. You've known him for most of your life. There's no need to worry.´

It had absolutely no effect. I was still nervous.

The house was indeed huge, and it didn't look welcoming. I couldn't understand why Raoul had bought it. He could have found something better. I took a deep breath and knocked. At first, nothing happened. As I lifted my hand to knock again, I heard a door being opened somewhere inside the building, followed by footsteps and the unmistakable sound of laughter. I frowned. I hadn't expected to hear laughter. The only people living in the house were Raoul and Jacques, and I couldn't imagine one of them laughing like that. It simply didn't fit the way I had pictured their life in my mind.

I was slightly irritated by the first change from what I had expected, but I didn't have any more time to think about it, for just then, the door was opened, and Raoul looked at me. I could tell that he had been smiling before, but he wasn't doing it now.

"Christine," he said coldly. "What brings you to my door?"

"I… well, I wanted to talk to you," I muttered, seized by a sudden wave of self-consciousness. I couldn't understand why he wasn't pleased to see me.

"I know what you want to tell me," he gave back matter-of-factly, making no move to invite me in. "You're here to inform me that the Phantom has returned and to tell me how happy you are about it. Well, I don't feel the need to hear that in every detail. The only thing that I want understood is that I still want to see the children at the prearranged times. The rest is your business, not mine. If you'd excuse me now… I have a guest."

And then I saw her. A young woman appeared at his side, gazing up at him with startlingly green eyes.

"Aren't you coming back inside, M. le Comte?" she asked, seemingly oblivious to my presence. "Uncle Jacques just wants to tell me about the fire, but he insists on you telling me the background story first."

"Of course," Raoul replied, giving her the smile I had never been given. He threw me a cold glance. "Is there anything else, Christine?" he wanted to know, the air of impatience unmistakable.

"No…" I whispered. "No, nothing… except…"

But he had already closed the door.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

If it had not been for the children, I wouldn't have returned to Christine's home too soon. I'd have waited a few days, maybe even weeks, hoping she'd calm down when left alone. Perhaps she simply needed time to think about everything, then she'd be friendly again. At least that was what I tried to tell myself.

Yet since there were the children to consider, I found myself on the way to said home mere hours after I had left it. Naturally, I had taken Marcella with me, but not, as Christine would probably suspect, to infuriate her further. The sole reason was the one I had given her before: I couldn't have left the girl alone on her first evening in Paris.

The poor thing was scared enough as it was. She hadn't said much, but I could tell that Christine's hostility had hurt her. From the way I had described my former pupil, she had expected to meet a friendly, sweet-tempered woman, not someone who'd take one look at her and walk away.

Marcella knew who Christine was, of course, at least up to a certain point. She knew that I had taught her, and that she had been a wonderful and also successful singer. I had spared her the true reasons for her resignation, though. It would have only scared the girl. In my version, Christine had abandoned her life as a singer when she had married the Vicomte and the first child had been on its way. Marcella had been very understanding. In her world, it was perfectly normal that a woman stopped working once she was married. If she had been working at all, that was.

If I had known from the beginning that I'd use Marcella to make Christine jealous, I might not have told the girl that much about her. Yet now that I had done so, I couldn't make it undone. There were huge differences between the woman I had described and the woman we had met, and being the sensitive girl she was, Marcella blamed herself for bringing out the worst in Christine.

The only way in which I could have corrected that misconception would have been telling her that Christine had mainly been angry at _me_, but I couldn't possibly do that. When I had first told her the story, I had conveniently left out the fact that there had been more than the usual relationship between a teacher and his pupil. At the time, I hadn't wanted to talk about such a painful and also embarrassing topic to a girl I had hardly known, and now it was too late.

It was no wonder that Marcella had been anything but delighted about the prospect of going back to that house. She had offered to stay at the opera or even in the coach, but I had pretended not to hear her. She had to get used to Christine. Besides, I wanted to introduce her to the children, and also to Mme.Giry and Jean. I sincerely hoped they'd be friendlier than Christine. If they weren't, Mareclla would get a very negative image of the French.

Basically, it all depended on how much Meg had told them about the encounter with Christine. Jean was a naturally friendly person, but even he wouldn't be very nice if he thoight I had hurt his wife's best friend. I didn't dare contemplate what Mme.Giry would do to me once she knew it. I should have talked to Meg on her own while I had still had the chance, but she had been too eager to get us out of the house as soon as possible.

I was almost convinced that going back hadn't been such a good idea after all, when I thought of the children. They would be pleased to see me. They wouldn't judge me by the way I had treated their mother, for the simple reason that they wouldn't know what had happened. No matter how angry Meg was at me, she wouldn't stoop that low as to tell them. She knew how much the children meant to me. They were the closest I'd ever have to a real family.

Marcella was still nervous on our journey to Christine's home, so I tried to ease her mind by telling her about Antoinette and Philippe. Coming from a big family herself, she always enjoyed hearing stories about children. Yet I didn't fail to notice that her eyes grew sad every now and then. I knew she missed her own brothers and sisters, to whom she had had a very close relationship. Like so many times in life, a decision for one thing had meant a decision against the other. She couldn't have her family and a career.

I watched her as I talked automatically, telling one story after the other without really listening to myself. I watched her beautiful eyes light up when she understood a joke, watched her full lips stretch into a relaxed smile. She truly was a pretty girl, a special girl. I'd do all I could to replace her family and to make her feel at home in the environment I had chosen for her.

But first of all, we'd visit the little ones. Words could not express how much I was looking forward to seeing them, but for once, Marcella understood me very well, probably better than someone who spoke the same language. Shyly, she seized my gloved hand, squeezed it lightly and let go of it again. I smiled at her. Being with her made me feel much less… well, lonely.

Not that I had been lonely in my years of travel. I had often had companions, sometimes hired guides, sometimes simply people with the same destination, and even when I had been alone, I hadn't been discontent. I had grown used to being alone over the years, and most of the time, I quite enjoyed it. It gave me a feeling of independence, of being able to be the man I was. Sometimes, however, a companion was a nice change.

I thought back to how much I had enjoyed the afternoon. I had allowed Marella to sing on the stage for a while, but only till I had heard the first singers and dancers return. Since I didn't want them to see the girl yet, not before I had spoken to the managers, we had retreated into one of the rooms Mme.Giry used for practicing when the stage was occupied.

I had been delighted to see that my initial estimation of the girl's talent, based solely on the simple songs I had heard her sing back in her home town, had not been wrong. She was a pleasure to work with, and now that we were here in Paris, where I had the time and the necessary equipment to teach her properly, her voice would improve quickly.

Talking to the managers would be the first thing I'd do tomorrow. I had no idea which opera they had planned or in which stage of preparations they were, but I'd soon find out. I'd simply ask Philippe, or else Mme.Giry, in case my boy's knowledge would prove not to be sufficient. And once I knew which opera it was, I'd try to get Marcella a small role in it. She needed to develop a feeling for the stage, a feeling for the audience.

My image of Marcella on the stage burst abruptly as the coach slowed down and came to a halt. I gave the girl a reassuring smile, telling her without words that this time, I didn't need her in order to see that we were there.

"Here we are, la mia cara," I said gently. "Don't worry. They'll like you," I added, noticing how pale she had grown.

"Ma la Signora Christine," she mumbled. "Lei… she doesn't like me. She… mi odia!"

"No!" I hasted to say, touched by the expression of sadness on her face. "She doesn't hate you, not at all. She… she has a few problems at the moment, but it has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?"

The girl nodded, but she didn't look much happier than before.

Still, we couldn't sit in the coach forever. I took her hand and led her onto the pavement and down the path to the house. She followed me reluctantly, but she didn't struggle or argue. She had been taught that obedience was important for a girl, and at the moment, I quite agreed.

We reached the house quickly, and I knocked. Despite my anxiety about what might happen with Christine and Marcella, I was eager for the door to be opened. It had been so long since the last time I had seen the children.

A moment later, the door burst open, and I nearly was knocked to the ground as a boy flung himself into my arms. The cries of "Uncle Erik! Uncle Erik!" were the sweetest music I had heard in a long time. I held my boy close, not ashamed of the tears running down my cheeks. For the first time since I had come back, I felt truly at home.


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Meg_

I watched the scene unfolding on our threshold, and despite myself, I couldn't help being touched. Sure, this was Erik, who had hurt my best friend very much, and still… this also was Uncle Erik, who was almost like a second father to Philippe. I knew how much the boy had missed him, how often he had asked for him, how desperately he had waited for his letters.

I couldn't blame him for being happy. After all, he had no idea what had happened between Uncle Erik and his mother while he had been at his teacher's house. By the time he had come home, Christine had already been gone, and I had only told him that she'd be back later. Hearing the news that Uncle Erik had returned, he had hardly cared about anything else anyway.

And now they were together again. I smiled. The cheerful atmosphere was disturbed rather quickly, though.

"Who is that, Uncle Erik?"

Of course it was Antoinette who asked the question. Up to now, she had been standing next to me in silence, watching her brother and Erik, just like I did, but silence had never been something she was too good at. If there was something on her mind, she simply uttered it.

At the girl's words, I looked over Erik's shoulder and saw none other than the Italian girl standing at the very edge of the threshold. She shuffled her feet, looking very uneasy, as if she'd have rather been anywhere but here. Feeling the attention focus on her, she took one step further into the shadows, till she was nearly swallowed completely by them.

Erik let go of Philippe and straightened up. It was only then that he seemed to notice that Philippe was not the only one who had come to greet him.

"Meg," he said, stepping forwards and seizing my hand to kiss it. "You haven't changed at all. Radiant as ever. And Antoinette! You've grown so much. I can hardly believe it's you."

It was clear to me that he tried to divert our attention from the girl. He should have known that such strategies never worked with Antoinette. If she wanted to know something, there was no diversion possible. Perhaps Erik had forgotten how persistent she could be.

"Bon soir, Uncle Erik," she said with a polite curtsey, only to go on the moment she had straightened up again, "Who is that?".

Erik made a slightly annoyed face and looked at me, as if trying to get me to help him.

I gave him a cold glance. In my opinion, I had done more than enough by not telling the children how he had treated their mother. The rest was up to him.

"This is Marcella," he finally replied, apparently deciding that no escape was possible. "I have brought her with me from Italy. I'll teach her to sing, and one day, she'll perform at the opera. Come, my dear, show yourself."

He took her by the hand, and the girl seemed to draw strength from his touch. She walked forwards into the part of the threshold that was illuminated by the light from the corridor, so that everyone could see her properly.

As I watched her chew on her bottom lip and stare down at the floor self-consciously, I found my initial impression underlined: Although a rather pretty girl, she was nothing compared to Christine. I failed to understand how Erik could have chosen her instead of my friend. Apart from everything else, she was… well, very young. She couldn't have been older than sixteen or seventeen, and though I couldn't be sure with Erik, I guessed that he was at least sixty years old.

Of course I knew that such combinations weren't unusual. Christine and I, who had both married rather young patrons, were a minority at the opera. It was much more common for patrons to be at least as old as Erik was, and they often sought contact to young girls, although admittedly, such unions rarely ended with weddings. I couldn't quite explain to myself why I was so shocked by the age difference, but I was.

Even Antoinette didn't seem to know what to say. We simply stared at the girl for a few moments, while she grew more and more uncomfortable. At last, Erik seemed to realise that the introduction he had begun was not over yet.

"Marcella, I'd like you to meet Antoinette and Philippe de Chagny," he told her. "You've already met Meg Tavoire," he added.

Marcella nodded, giving me a shy glance and a half-smile, which I did not return. I didn't want to make it too easy for her. She hadn't made it easy for Christine either.

"Bonjour," she muttered.

That one word seemed to have been all Antoinette needed. Apparently she had decided that the new girl was not dangerous in any way, and since she always liked to talk to everyone who would listen and find out more about them, she began to try and satisfy her curiosity at once.

"You want to sing at the opera?" she asked. "Are you a good singer? You must be very good, or they won't take you. When I'm older, I want to dance at the opera, just like Meg. I go there as often as I can, when I'm not at my teacher's house. Do you have a private teacher as well, or have you already learned all you had to?"

Antoinette certainly meant well, but the effect of her speech on Marcella was quite the contrary. She turned to Erik, an expression of utmost confusion on her face.

"Non comprendo niente," she whispered miserably. "Che cosa dice la bambina? Parla troppo rapidamente."

"Marcella can't understand you," Erik explained to Antoinette. "She doesn't speak French very well yet. If you want to have answers to your questions, you have to talk slowly, or at least give me the chance to translate what you want to know."

Antoinette frowned. It was clear that the concept of talking slowly was unfamiliar to her. As far as I knew, she had been talking quickly from the moment in which she had known how. On the other hand, she loved talking, and she never missed the chance of making a new friend.

"Oh…" she made. "I'll try again, shall I? Are you a good singer?" she repeated, speaking very slowly.

Marcella beamed at her, obviously understanding her at last.

"I do not know if I am good," she replied. "But I like singing very much. Signor Erik will teach me. He is a good teacher."

"Meg is a very good teacher as well," Antoinette said. "And Aunt Antoinette. She teaches the chorus girls at the opera. She's Meg's mother and my godmother. That's why we have the same name, you know."

Marcella looked a little confused again, but Erik helped her before she could even ask.

"Aunt Antoinette è Mme.Giry, la madre di Meg e la madrigna di Antoinette," he told her quickly.

She nodded.

I seized the chance to say something as well.

"Why don't we all continue this conversation inside?" I suggested. "It's getting cold here in the corridor, and my mother and Jean are waiting for us in the sitting room."

"Is Christine there as well?" Erik asked in a very casual voice that didn't fool me for a moment. I knew at once that he had been meaning to ask that question for a long time, probably ever since they had arrived.

"No," I replied shortly. "She has gone to see Raoul."

There was no telling what was going on in his head. I had no idea whether my answer made him disappointed or relieved. The expression on his face didn't change at all. The part of it covered with the new mask remained as blank as the rest.

"Let's get inside then," he decided after a moment's silence. "It is a little cold out here, and I don't want Marcella to catch a cold. She has yet to get used to the climate. It was much warmer in Italy."

Antoinette and I stepped aside to let them through. I could tell that Marcella had understood what I had said about Christine not being here. She walked more freely, like someone who had been freed from a big weight on their shoulders. She also seemed to grow more interested in her surroundings. Antoinette continued their conversation, and she joined in at once. The communication between them was working very well, now that Antoinette knew she had to talk slowly. Marcella even dared leave Erik's side and walk down the corridor with the girl, throwing curious glances to the left and right.

"They like each other," Erik stated.

"It appears so," I agreed matter-of-factly. I was not about to stop talking to him altogether, but he couldn't expect me to be overly friendly either, not after what had happened.

Erik looked at me.

"Meg," he said softly. "I know that what I did with Christine and Marcella was… maybe not the most elegant solution. But all that has nothing to do with me and you. We've been good friends before I left, and I'd like that friendship to continue. There is no reason for you to be that hostile."

"No reason?" I repeated incredulously, after I had made sure that Antoinette and Marcella were out of earshot. "Erik, you hurt Christine. She was delighted to hear that you'd come back, and then you show up here with your… your mistress, and Christine didn't even have an idea that there was someone else! I'm her best friend. If you hurt her, you also hurt me. Don't you understand?" I stopped, breathing heavily.

With a certain sense of satisfaction, I noticed that Erik's face showed a reaction at last. He looked shocked, with his eyes bulging slightly and his mouht hanging open. Yet it wasn't he who spoke.

"Why did you hurt Maman, Uncle Erik?" Philippe asked, looking up at him from where he still stood on the doorstep. "And what is a mistress?"

**Author's note:** The Italian phrases translate as: "I don't understand anything. What does the girl say? She's talking too quickly." and "Aunt Antoinette is Mme.Giry, Meg's mother and Antoinette's godmother.".


	22. Chapter TwentyTwo

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

As I stared at Philippe incredulously, I could almost feel my face drain of colour, till it had to be at least as white as my old mask. I couldn't believe what had just happened. I couldn't believe that I had been that careless. Why had I been so focused on Marcella, Antoinette and Meg that I hadn't realised Philippe was there as well? How could I have forgotten him? I had never done so before, not even when I had been thousands of miles away from him.

Yet none of that mattered now. My boy was waiting for answer to his questions. I looked at Meg, but she shook her head slightly, the expression on her face stern. The message was clear. ´This is all your fault. You've landed yourself in this situation, so you have to get yourself out of it again. Don't expect any help from me.´

I'd have liked to disagree with her, but she was right. Sure, it had been she who had spoken without making sure that no one could overhear her, but it had been I who had been the reason for her to speak up in the first place. I was to blame, so I had to give the explanations. Actually, that was not too bad after all. If I tried to explain everything myself, I still had the chance to make my boy see the situation from my point of view.

"Well, Philippe," I began, without a clear idea of what I wanted to say, but hoping I'd be able to make up something as I went along. "I didn't really hurt your Maman." I heard Meg snort derisively behind me. Trying my best to concentrate on Philippe only, I went on: "What I mean is that I didn't hit her or anything like that. You know I'd never do such a thing. We just… when I first arrived this morning, she and I had an argument. About Marcella. Your Maman… doesn't like her very much."

"But why?" Philippe asked. "I thought she was nice. Wasn't she nice to Maman?"

"She was very nice," I replied. "Your Maman doesn't like her because… because…" I thought hard about how much of the truth I could say without telling him things that were unsuitable for his age. Finally, I settled for: "…because I'm going to spend a lot of time with Marcella, teaching her and preparing her for her career. Your Maman is afraid that she and I won't see each other very often anymore, and that makes her sad and worried."

Philippe nodded slowly, pensively. He seemed to be thinking about something.

"And is it true?" he wanted to know after a moment.

"Is what true, my boy?" I asked gently.

"That you won't have time for us," he explained. "That you'll spend all your time with Marcella. Won't you be my teacher anymore, not that you've got her?"

"Of course I will be your teacher," I assured him. "I will always be your teacher, as long as there are still things I can teach you. Marcella will also be my pupil, but I can easily teach both of you. I have much time, and I intend to spend a lot of it with you. I love you, Philippe, and I missed you so much."

"I missed you, too, Uncle Erik, and I love you, too," he told me seriously, his little hand slipping into mine. My heart leapt with joy. I was so very glad that I hadn't lost him like I seemed to have lost Meg. I wouldn't have known what I had done if he had said he didn't love me anymore.

"Can we go to the sitting room now?" Meg asked, sounding a little annoyed. It seemed that she had secretly been hoping I'd have more problems with the boy. "Antoinette and Marcella will have already arrived there by now, and I do think you should be with them to introduce your… friend."

I nodded in agreement, and we made our way down the corridor.

"Is mistress another word for friend then?" Philippe wanted to know.

I had been rather hoping that he had forgotten his second question, but apparently, fortune was not smiling upon me today. Yet at least his assumption made the explanation easier for me.

"Well… yes, in a way, mistress means friend, but…" I stopped. I knew I had to keep him from using the word himself, or he'd make a right fool of himself and maybe even find out the true meaning of the word. "…but it's a word only adults use," I added.

"Oh…" he made, comprehension dawning on his face. "So it's a word like those Papa's coachman shouted when the horse kicked him? Papa said that Antoinette and I must never use such words, and he himself wouldn't do it either."

"Yes, it is one of those words," I agreed, although naturally, I didn't know which exact words the Vicomte's coachman had used on that occasion. "At least in the sense Aunt Meg used it," I added pointedly.

I had not forgiven Meg for talking that rudely about Marcella. How dared she call her my mistress, as if I had brought a common harlot from the street with me? It was a few moments before I realised that for all Meg knew, Marcella _was_ my mistress. I had completely forgotten that she believed the same story I had told Christine… the same story I'd have to tell everyone else.

The force of this truth hit me like a bullet. I'd have to tell everyone, from Mme.Giry and Jean to the managers and even the ballet rats, that Marcella and I were more than a teacher and his pupil. If I didn't, someone would be sure to tell Meg, and then my whole story would collapse. It was not as if I cared too much about lying to those people, but the sheer size to which my plan was expanding before my very eyes overwhelmed me. Making Christine jealous was one thing, but this was adding a completely new dimension. I'd have to talk to Marcella soon. I had to make sure that she knew what lay ahead of us. I'd also have to have a carefully planned conversation with the children. But now was not the right moment to start one.

We didn't talk till we reached the door to the sitting room. It stood open. Apparently Antoinette hadn't seen the need to wait for us, but had simply gone inside with Marcella, possibly even introducing her herself. The girl seemed to be just as self-assured as she had always been.

"…Marcella," I hust heard her say. "She's from Italy. Uncle Erik brought her here. He wants to teach her how to sing at the opera."

"Yes, indeed," I interrupted her quickly, walking into the room with Meg and Philippe, who had let go of my hand.

"Erik," Jean exclaimed, jumping up from his chair. Beaming at me, he hurried over to the door and shook my head enthusiastically. "It's so good to see you back," he said. "Life was becoming very boring here… Oh, you have a new mask. It looks fantastic. Where did you get it?"

I barely had time to mutter a brief explanation about how I had made it myself before Meg asked:

"Oh, it's boring here, is it? And I thought life with twins and two other children was entertainment enough for my husband."

The words could have sounded harsh, but she smiled while she spoke them, and I could tell that she wasn't really angry at him. I couldn't help wishing that she hadn't really been angry at me either, but I knew better.

Meg walked up to Jean, and they shared a loving kiss. They seemed to be just as much in love as they had ever been, and they didn't seem to have any problems in showing it. I watched them, feeling a sharp sting of jeaousy. Why couldn't Christine and I be that happy together? Why couldn't we have such a carefree relationship, just like we had had it in the days when we had pretended to be married?

Yet that had been nothing but a lie. Now that I thought about it, our whole life together seemed to be made of nothing but lies, starting from the moment when I had told Christine I was the Angel of Music and going right up to the lie that Marcella and I were in love. Like I had stated before, I didn't mind lying in general. It didn't cause me the inner turmoil it obviously caused other people. I just didn't like the often negative consequences.

"Erik?"

I turned my head in Mme.Giry's direction, feeling slightly embarrassed because I had paid more attention to my thoughts that to what was going on in the world outside my head. Noticing that everyone else had sat down, I hastened to do the same.

There was an empty seat between Marcella and Antoinette on the sofa and another one next to Philippe. Before I could decide which one to take, however, Mme.Giry called out to me again.

"Come and sit here with me, Erik," she said, pointing at an armchair next to hers. "I'd like to have a word with you," she went on, and I saw her eyes dart over to Marcella or a moment before her gaze was fixed on me again.

I complied, swallowing hard. I had a feeling that I knew what she wanted to talk to me about. It would not be pleasant.


	23. Chapter TwentyThree

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

It would have been wrong to say that I was a man who followed orders readily, even though I did like giving them. I rarely did what other people wanted me to do, and if I did so, it usually happened because I wanted it myself. I had never quite understood the need to do something in order to please others.

However, Mme.Giry had always been a slight exception of that rule. There was something in her voice that made it hard to disobey her, which was good when she was dealing with the chorus girls, but very bad when it came to dealing with me. Besides, I felt a kind of moral obligation to listen to what she had to say to me. After all, she was one of the few people who had always been friendly to me. It was the least I could do to be friendly to her as well. And at the moment, being friendly meant sitting down at her side, even if it was against my better judgement.

I knew right from the beginning that it would not be good. Mme.Giry glanced at me sternly, and when I tried to lean over and kiss her hand in greeting, she snatched it away quickly before I could do anything.

"Don't you want to come and sit here with all of us?" Jean called, sounding highly disappointed.

"In a minute," I promised, hoping it would really be over that quickly. "Your mother-in-law just wants a quick word with me."

"Maybe not that quick," she corrected me coldly.

A shiver ran down my spine.

"What is the meaning of _this_, Erik?" she hissed, gesturing over her shoulder into the direction where Marcella was sitting, fortunately with her back facing us.

"I believe Antoinette has already told you," I replied in an attempt to pretend it was a perfectly normal conversation. "Her name is Marcella. I've brought her with me from Italy because I want to make her a singer. She has a wonderful – "

"Oh, spare me that nonsense," she snapped. "Meg has told Jean and me all that has happened this morning. That Marcella is not just a singer – you want to make her your mistress!"

"Shhhh!" I made, pressing a finger to my lips.

The last thing I needed now was for Philippe to hear that word again, this time in a room full of adults who'd be happy to tell him what exactly it meant. I glanced over at the others, but they had begun a conversation as well and weren't listening. In fact, Meg was talking in such a loud voice that it could probably be heard in the entire house. I couldn't help thinking that it was part of a plan the two women had made up together. Mme.Giry gave me my lecture, and her daughter distracted the children.

"To your information," I said in a cool voice. "I do not wish to make Marcella my mistress, at least not in the way the word implies. But I cannot deny that… that she and I are in love with each other."

The lie didn't come over my lips as easily as I had thought it would. However, I told myself that now I had started, there was no going back.

"It is despicable," Mme.Giry hissed. "Utterly despicable. You're not even trying to deny it!"

"Why should I?" I asked hotly. "I have done nothing wrong. Christine and I are not married. I can't see why you're so upset."

"I am not upset," she corrected me. "I'm furious. How could you do that to Christine? You always tried to convince everyone that she truly meant something to do, that you loved her. You have a very peculiar way of showing your feelings then. I'm very glad that it's not Meg who is concerned, and you should be glad as well. If it was Meg, I'd throw you out of this house with my own two hands!"

I gaped at Mme.Giry. I knew she could be very harsh, but there was a huge difference between watching her shout at a chorus girl who had forgotten her routine and being involved myself. I made a silent vow to be more sympathetic towards the chorus girls in the future. But first, I had to get out of this conversation alive.

"Christine… I… we…," I stammered, completely at a loss for what to say.

"Christine waited for you," Mme.Giry told me sternly. "She was looking forward to your return, just like Philippe. You haven't brought another child with you to compete with him, have you? Then why is that girl with you? Didn't you realise how much it would hurt Christine to see the two of you together?"

I still had no idea what to say. I could hardly tell her the truth, namely that I had _wanted_ to hurt Christine by taking Marcella with me and presenting her as the new woman in my life. If I said that, Mme.Giry might consider murdering me right there in the sitting room, and I didn't want the children and Marcella to witness such violence.

Besides, I noticed all of a sudden, what about _my_ pain? Meg, Mme.Giry – they all spoke about Christine's pain, about her feelings and about her suffering. Did they have the faintest idea of how much I had suffered when I had heard about the Vicomte and her? Did they even care? Or was only Christine important to them?

Anger pulsed through my body. Other people grew speechless when they were angry, yet fortunately, it had never been like that for me. On the contrary, anger made my voice return to me.

"You're such a hypocrite!" I hissed. "Poor darling Christine, who suffered so much at the hands of that terrible Phantom! Poor Christine, who is still suffering at his hands! No one mentions how much she makes me suffer. You should have seen her! She enjoyed telling me about the Vicomte and herself. She enjoyed humiliating me."

Mme.Giry shook her head. I had the distinct impression that there were many things she'd have liked to say but didn't, for whatever reason. I didn't care. Christine was not pefect, and I had proved it. It was only natural that Mme.Giry wasn't pleased about it.

"Be that as it may," she finally said, which probably was her way of expressing that she knew I was right but couldn't tell me so. "The fact remains that you provoked her by bringing that girl with you. As far as I'm informed, Christine didn't have Raoul with her, did she?"

"Only because she didn't know when I was coming," I argued. "If she had known it, she might have brought him here and placed him on the sofa, just to show herself with him and taunt me further."

She looked at me for a long moment, the expression on her face softening slightly.

"You never used to talk that spitefully," she stated calmly. "Not about Christine, anyway. I can understand that your love for her had disappeared over the years of your absence – although I wouldn't have believed it possible, not in your case – but don't you care about her at all? What is the matter, Erik?"

For a moment, I was on the verge of telling her everything, of admitting that I had lied and possibly even apologising. She was so kind all of a sudden, so concerned for my well-being as well as Christine's. I remembered why I had always respected that woman. She was fast to speak her mind – Antoinette had inherited that character trait from her godmother – but she always remained just.

The moment, however, passed quickly as I let my gaze wander through the room. I imagined how often Christine and the Vicomte must have sat here together with Meg and Jean, laughing and enjoying themselves. What difference would it make whether I lied or told the truth? It wouldn't change the facts. If anything, it would make them all laugh at me. I couldn't bear being laughed at.

"It is nothing," I replied stiffly. "I'm fine. I… I don't have a problem with Christine being with the Vicomte, not at all. She has her life, and I have mine. The only thing I still care about are the children."

Involuntarily, my hand went to my throat. It was quite astonishing how much uttering those words had hurt. It felt as if I had been chewing glass. I simply couldn't bring myself to telling the ultimate lie. Instinctively, I knew I'd never be able to utter it. I'd never say that I didn't love Christine. Things were painful enough already.

Mme.Giry continued gazing at me for a few moments, as if she knew I had been about to say more. When I didn't do anything but underline my words with a nod, however, she seemed to come to the conclusion that she had done all she could.

"I see," she said, and I heard traces of both disappointment and pity in her voice. "Well, I think we'll find an arrangement for you to see the children. I suppose you want to go on teaching Philippe."

"Of course," I told her. "The substitute teacher was acceptable while I was gone, but now that I'm back…"

"I see," she repeated. "I'll talk to Christine. I take it you don't want to do it yourself, do you?"

"No," I admitted. "I… I don't think she and I should meet in the nearer future. It wouldn't be good."

I got up from my seat to join the others, but stopped.

"There's one more thing," I said. "Please be friendly to Marcella. You'll often see her at the opera and… well, it's not her fault."

"I won't treat her as if it were," Mme.Giry assured me with a thin smile and a slight wave of her hand. I was dismissed. The lecture was over.


	24. Chapter TwentyFour

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Meg_

The moment Erik sat down next to Philippe, beaming at him, I knew the discussion with my mother had not gone well. He was much too cheerful and relaxed. He took over the conversation with ease, entertaining us with his stories and laughing with Jean and the children as if he had never been gone.

When I had imagined the state he'd be in once my mother was finished with him, I had seen him miserable, full of remorse and ready to make amends, to go and find Christine and tell her that he was sorry and that Marcella didn't mean half as much to him as my friend did. However, Erik didn't look like a man who was about to do any of those things.

I glanced over at my mother, and she shook her head sadly, confirming what I had already suspected to be true. I wished I could have taken part in her conversation as well, but right from the beginning, my mother had been against it. ´You've already seen him,´ she had said. ´And he knows you're angry at him. That is not a good basis for such a difficult conversation. I, on the other hand, have not met him yet. It'll be a fresh start. Besides, Erik respects me. He'll listen to what I have to say.´

Well, I thought bitterly, it was possible that he had indeed listened to what she had told him, but it hadn't changed anything. He looked just like he had done when I had spoken to him: stubborn and determined to do what he thought was best, no matter how many people he hurt in the process. The whole conversation had been utterly pointless.

And we had planned it all so carefully. By now, we were used to making plans. It had been my role to distract the children and Marcella from the conversation they hadn't been supposed to hear. At least that part had worked, though without a success in my mother's part, it wasn't worth anything either.

Thinking of plans inevitably reminded me of Christine. I could only hope that her conversation with Raoul would be better than the one my mother had had with Erik. I threw a glance at the clock. She was gone for quite a while now. Well, it probably was a good sign. If they had had an argument, she'd have been back much sooner.

Perhaps the news of the child had really reunited them, and now they were making up for all the lost time. I smiled to myself. Christine could do with a little more love in her life, and at the moment, it didn't look as if Erik was the one to give it to her. So why shouldn't she make up with Raoul? He was a nice man, and Christine needed someone nice, after all she had gone through.

Of course, once Raoul had officially accepted the child as his, our big plan would be over as well. I knew that the revelation that one of my children actually was Christine's would cause plenty of rumours at first, but the interest would die down eventually. Sure, some people would frown upon us, but we'd be able to live with it.

Perhaps we could just say that Christine's health had been so poor after the birth that we hadn't wanted her to be exposed to any more pressure and had therefore decided to raise the little ones together. It didn't sound like a very likely story, but far worse rumours had been accepted readily by the public. It wouldn't be a big problem, not compared to what we had faced in the past.

I'd be sorry to see Christine and the children go and live with Raoul. I had grown used to having them around. My mother was at the opera at all times, and Jean was working so much. If Christine left, I'd be alone with Michel and the servants all day. It would be very boring for me, and even more so for my son. Clarille and he had grown up like brother and sister. He wouldn't understand why she'd be gone all of a sudden.

But then, maybe Christine and Raoul would buy a house that wasn't as far from here as their old one had been. I knew that one or two houses in our neighbourhood were for sale. I could talk to the owners, ask them about prices, maybe even introduce them to Christine and Raoul. If they'd really get a house here, we'd be able to maintain our close friendship without the disadvantage of more lies. It would be a good life.

"What do you think about it, love?"

"What?" I gave back, looking at Jean in confusion. Did he want to know what I thought about Christine and Raoul moving into our neighbourhood? But no, that topic had only been discussed in my head.

"I asked for your opinion," he explained gently.

"Erm… on which subject?" I asked, blushing slightly as I realised how little attention I had paid to the conversation I was supposed to be taking part in. My ability to appear genuinely interested while my thoughts wandered freely was useful in general, but sometimes, it had negative consequences.

"I've just invited Erik and his charming friend Mariella to stay for dinner," Jean told me. "Larisse always cooks too much, and I'm sure she'd be happy about having two more guests. We could also continue our delightful conversation over a good meal. Wouldn't that be nice?"

I threw my husband a subtle, yet furious glance. I loved him dearly, but he had the annoying habit of forgetting things very quickly. I had told him the moment he had come home that Erik would arrive later to see the children, but under not circumstances would we invite him to dinner. I had also enumerated the reasons, yet a few nice stories and the prospect of hearing more of them seemed to have wiped Jean's memory clean of everything else. Sometimes, he was like a little child.

And now I was in trouble. If I said that Marcella and Erik couldn't stay, the children would be sure to ask for the reasons. Especially Antoinette, who was slowly learning the rules of polite behaviour, would notice at once that something was wrong, and she wouldn't stop asking questions till she had the kind of answers she wanted. But if I agreed to let them stay, Christine would be outraged once she came home. If was a very unpleasant situation, and I sincerely wished someone else was there to make a decision for me.

I directed my glare at Erik instead of Jean. Surely he knew that he was unwanted. Christine had told him so. He had to realise that Jean's opinion on the subject was not the same as everyone else's. Jean and probably also the children might have wanted him to stay, but my mother and I certainly did not. I could imagine the look on Christine's face when she'come back to find the man who had broken her heart sitting at the table with his mistress. For that was what Marcella was, no matter which euphemisms Erik preferred.

Unfortunately, I had to find out that it was impossible to glare at Erik, for the simple reason that he didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed on Jean and the children, with an occasional sideways glance at Marcella. I suspected that he avoided my eye because I was angry at him and he didn't want to see me, but that behaviour only infuriared me further. What was the point in glaring at someone who didn't look at me?

Jean cleared his throat.

"Well, Meg?" he asked. "Now that you've thought about it carefully… what is your opinion? Can Marcella and Erik stay? I don't want to rush your decision, but it's getting late, and I think we should warn Larisse that there will be two more people at the table tonight."

It all sounded as if he had already made the decision, no matter what I'd say. I opened my mouth to utter an angry retort, but in that moment, a loud noise echoed through the room, coming from outside.

Erik was first to jump to his feet, closely followed by Jean and me.

"What was that?" Antoinette cried, her eyes wide.

"Just a door slamming shut," replied Erik, who seemed to have recognised the sound first. He settled down again, brushing over Antoinette's and Philippe's heads soothingly as he did so. Leaning over to Marcella, he then muttered what I assumed were explanations in Italian.

I, on the other hand, was far from reassured. If it had really been a door – and Erik could be trusted when it came to such things – I had a good idea of who had slammed it shut, and that someone needed her best friend.

"I'll go and make sure everything is all right," I told the others. Jean made to come with me, but I held him back with a gesture and left the room quickly, before Erik could have similar ideas.

I found Christine in her bedroom. She had collapsed onto the bed without as much as taking her coat or her shoes off first. There she was lying, her face buried in the pillow. The room was filled with the sound of her muffled sobs.

"Christine?" I said cautiously, standing on the threshold. "Can I come in?"

"Go away!" came the reply. "Leave me in peace! I don't want to see anyone! I…"

I waited for a few more moments, but she didn't utter another coherent word. Quietly, I turned around and walked away. Whatever had happened at Raoul's house, it had not been something pleasant. Suddenly, the question of whether Erik stayed for dinner grew totally unimportant. Something told me that Christine wouldn't come downstairs to eat anyway.


	25. Chapter TwentyFive

**Author's note:** I just wanted to thank you for your support. It means very much to me!

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

In the end, Marcella and I did stay for dinner. I knew that Mme.Giry and Meg were against it, but I thought the children to be more important, and they wanted me to eat with them. I could only hope that neither them nor Marcella noticed the tense atmosphere.

Meg returned to the sitting room with a stony expression on her face, refusing to talk about what had been going on. All she said was that Christine had come home with a dreadful headache and that she had gone to sleep early and didn't want any dinner. The children were concerned, but Meg had assured them that their mother would feel much better in the morning if she wasn't disturbed by anyone now.

So we tiptoed into the dining room, not speaking a word, for that was what Philippe had told us to do. He was very worried about his mother. So was I, but at the same time, I couldn't help being a little gleeful about Christine's state. After all, if she came back with such a terrible headache, her meeting with the Vicomte could not have been that wonderful. If the man was anything like he had used to be, it was enough to give any woman a headache.

I was almost glad that I wouldn't see Christine tonight. I'd never have admitted it to anyone, but I had been a little afraid of meeting her. I could do without being exposed to that cold look she had given me, without hearing how close the Vicomte and she had grown. Perhaps it was indeed better for the two of us if we didn't meet for a while. We needed time to deal with all the changes, or an argument would be inevitable. I was willing to give her all the time she needed… as long as the result would be the right one in the end.

I could have slapped myself for entertaining such a thought. There was no right result, at least not in the sense I was secretly hoping for. Christine would not have a sudden change of heart, leave the Vicomte and come to me. It hadn't happened like that the first time she had gone away with him, and it would not happen now. All I could really hope for was that she and I might become something like friends.

Christine's absence hung over us as we settled down at the large table, leaving her usual seat empty on Philippe's order. The initial awkwardness of the situation vanished quickly, though, as soon as the food arrived. Mme.Gardé nearly dropped the bowl she was carrying as she saw me. I greeted her warmly. She had always been friendly to me, and I knew that she was friendly to Christine and the children as well. I was glad that she was still working here. She belonged to the family.

I was surprised not to see Jacqueline and Marielle, and Meg explained to me that they were upstairs, taking care of the twins, who had taken their evening meal earlier and were about to go the sleep. I didn't mind having missed them today. Dealing with little children was not something I had great experience in. Philippe had been lovely as an infant, but who knew what those twins were like? I'd still have plenty of opportunities to meet them later.

Time passed quickly while we sat there and ate the delicious meal Mme.Gardé had prepared. Meg mentioned in passing that there was a housekeeper as well, but the woman didn't turn up in the dining room. Apparently she wasn't interested in whether or not there were guests, and she didn't seem willing to help either. Mme.Gardé and a young maid called Marie had to do all the work alone.

Due to the excellent food, no one talked much during the meal, even though I knew Jean was eager to hear more of my stories. I was sure that he'd invite us to stay after dinner, but this time, Meg was faster. Exchanging a glance of deep understanding with her mother, she declared loudly that it was very late, well past the children's bedtime and that Marcella and I surely wanted to rest as well, after the long journey.

I was itching to disagree, but thought better of it. Mme.Giry and Meg lived in this house, and Mme.Giry had even promised to talk to Christine about the children and my right to visit them. If I turned them against me – even more so than they already were, that was – they could make my life rather unpleasant.

So I agreed to leave, kissed the children goodbye, promising to come back soon, and ten minutes later, Marcella and I were sitting in a coach, on our way back to the opera. It was only then that I realised how quiet the girl had been all evening. She had hardly said a word.

"Is there something troubling you, my dear?" I asked. I spoke Italian, for I guessed that she had heard more than enough French for one day.

She threw me am shy glance and shook her head quickly.

"No, no," she replied. "I'm fine… just a little tired."

I gave her a gentle smile. Of course she was tired. We had been travelling for most of the night, and instead of resting properly once we had arrived, I had spent hours visiting people she didn't know, dragging her along because I hadn't wanted her to stay alone.

"It was a little too much for you, wasn't it?" I said. "I promise that not all of our days will be quite as busy. But I just had to go and see Antoinette and Philippe today. You understand that, don't you?"

She nodded.

"You love them very much," she stated. "Especially the boy. I could tell from the way you looked at him."

"Yes, I love him," I admitted openly. I saw no need to hide my feelings from Marcella. I was sure that she understood them. "He's like my own son," I went on. "I've known him ever since he was born. I've taught him a lot of things he'll need. One day, he'll be my heir, you know. He'll take over my position at the opera."

Again, she nodded.

"Giovanni will be my father's heir," she told me. "He's my oldest brother, and the best of all of us… according to my father. He's very proud of him. But how can Philippe be your heir? He's not your son, is he?"

I gave a sigh. It was all so very complicated to explain to someone who had no idea of what had been going on between Christine and me.

"No, he's not my son," I replied wearily. "But he's the son of Christine, and she is… was… a very… a very good friend of mine. A long time ago," I continued hastily, eager to make up for my stammering. "I made a vow to look after him for all times. And that is what I do."

"But why don't you have children of your own?" she wanted to know. "One of them could become your heir. Surely you're old enough to have grandchildren already. Have you never –?"

"Enough!" I said sharply, before the conversation could become even more unpleasant for me.

Marcella jumped as if I had hit her.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, forcing myself to remain calm and friendly. "It has been a long day, and I don't want to tell you such a long story now. I'll explain everything another day."

She nodded, and I wondered how much of the entire story I'd really tell her. At least I didn't have to decide about that now.

Our conversation ended, and shortly afterwards, we reached the opera. Marcella seemed to be very tired now. She stumbled as I helped her out of the coach, and only my arm kept her from falling. I held her hand firmly as we walked down corridors, stopping only to fetch her luggage from where I had left it. All her possessions were crammed into a single bag.

With the bag in one hand and her cold fingers in the other, I made my way to the dressing room I had chosen for her. I knew from Philippe that it stood empty, for the previous owner had moved on to a different opera a few weeks ago. No one would mind if I took it. And if someone did mind… well, I had my trusted methods of persuasion.

When we arrived at the room, I led the girl inside and lit a lamp. The room was small and windowless, and the pieces of furniture made of dark wood made it look even smaller. An ugly wardrobe stood next to the door. On the opposite wall, there was a dressing table and a stool. A bed stood in the corner. There would not have been space for anything else.

Placing the bag in front of the wardrobe, I said:

"This is the room where you'll live. You should have all you need here. Clean sheets are in one of the drawers. Oh, and the bathroom is outside, the second door on the right. You can fetch water for drinking there as well. There's an empty jug on the dressing table. I'll come for you at… let's say, nine in the morning. That should give you enough time to sleep. There won't be any food here, for the chorus girls have to buy such things themselves, but I'll bring you something to eat for breakfast."

I looked around in the room once more, but I couldn't think of anything else to say. I was about to leave when something held me back. Glancing down at my arm, I realised that Marcella had seized my hand again and was clinging to it as if for dear life.

"You want to leave me here… alone?" she asked in a terrified whisper. She sounded as if I had threatened to leave her in the middle of a pack of hungry lions.

"Well… yes," I said slowly.

"But… but I've never slept alone in a room," she muttered miserably. "My sisters have always been with me. I can't stay here, I can't. What if something happens? What if there are ghosts here? Please, Signor Erik, take me with you! Don't leave me here! Please…"


	26. Chapter TwentySix

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

**November 6****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

Pity welled up inside me as I looked at the girl. During all the planning I had done ever since I had decided to take her with me and teach her at the opera, it had never occurred to me that she wouldn't sleep alone in a room. So many questions I had considered, so many problems foreseen, but not this one.

Sure, I had known that she had shared a room with her sisters. She had told me so herself. Yet I had thought of it as something that had annoyed her, rather like it would have annoyed me. I had been certain that she'd be delighted at the prospect of having a room that she could call her own, a place where she'd be able to do what she wanted.

Well, it seemed that I had interpreted too much of myself into Marcella. She was not like me. She seemed to have enjoyed her sisters' company, and finding herself alone all of a sudden made her frightened. I should have thought about it before, but I hadn't. And there wasn't much I could do now. I could hardly conjure her sisters out of thin air, and there was no other girl I could ask to sleep in her room. Perhaps I'd be able to find her one of the chorus girls as companion in a few weeks' time, once they knew each other, but not now.

I knew what she wanted, of course. She had said so herself, and I could see it in her pleading gaze, could feel it in the way she was clutching my hand. She wanted to come with me, to spend the night in my house. I couldn't blame her for harbouring that wish. After all, I was the only one in this country she knew. I was the one who had brought her here. It was only natural that she wanted to stay with me.

Yet it was impossible. I couldn't take her with me. It was… well, impossible. I hadn't even told her that I lived underground. She knew I lived here in the building, but she probably thought I had a room or a flat somewhere, not a house in the cellars. If I had told her about it now, I'd have to reveal a lot of other things, among them my position as the Opera Ghost. It would be a long, unpleasant explanation, and I had no desire to give it now.

Besides, I simply couldn't imagine having her in my house, allowing her to sleep there. It would have been like letting her take over Christine's place, and I couldn't do that. It was one thing to pretend to other people that she was the new woman at my side, but I wouldn't go as far as to pretend it to myself.

All I had to do was persuade Marcella to stay here without revealing any of those things. Somehow, it didn't sound very easy. Still, I'd do my best. And what would have been a better point to start than a subject that I knew a lot about?

"There are no ghosts here, Marcella," I assured her. "I've lived here for a long time, and I've never seen one."

"There are ghosts one can't see," she told me, throwing me an almost pitying glance. "You can just feel their presence. They make the hairs on one's arms stand up, and one feels as if someone was there all the time." She looked over her shoulder, as if she had indeed just felt someone watching her.

If it hadn't been for the anxious expression on her face, I'd have burst into laughter. The things she described were exactly what people felt when I was around, heard but unseen, or sensed but unheard. It was exactly those superstitions I had been playing with in order to create my own myth. In general, I thought the belief in ghosts was rather amusing. I had rarely met someone who took it that seriously.

But then, that was hardly surprising, considering Marcella's upbringing. I didn't have a very profound knowledge of the area in which she had lived, but I had learned that religion and the belief in the supernatural went hand in hand there. The existance of ghosts, spirits and other phenomena was almost something like common knowledge there.

Yet even with all that at the back of my head, I'd have never thought it would have such a strong influence on Marcella. My whole arm was vibrating because the girl was shaking so badly. She was convinced that there were ghosts, and I realised that I wouldn't be able to talk her out of it, not now that she was in such a state. She wouldn't believe me anyway.

Maybe I could at least try to appeal to her common sense, making her see that there was no danger in sleeping alone. The rest could wait.

"What difference does it make whether there is just one person in a room or more?" I asked, in the same voice I had used when trying to make Philippe realise an error he had made. "I've often been in this room, and I've never seen or felt anything extraordinary."

Now the glance she threw me was definitely pitying.

"You're a man," she stated flatly. "There are spirits that don't affect men, not matter whether they're alone or in a group. For women, however, especially for girls, they're very dangerous. Have you never heard of… Incubi? My mother warned me never to sleep alone in a room, because Incubi prey on girls, and the consequences are terrible…"

I groaned. I hadn't expected our conversation to take that turn. I had thought that we were talking about ghosts which came out and frightened people with their sudden appearance or strange sounds, and not about Incubi. Of course I knew what they were, even though I didn't believe in such things. I could see that the idea of demons which adopted the rough shape of men and approached women at night-time in order to sire children frightened a girl like Marcella, and also her mother. Not only in rural Italy, many marriages still depended on whether the future bride was untouched. The fear of Incubi often represented nothing but the fear of infidelity. Mothers planted the idea in their daughters' minds in order to scare them away from giving themselves to men before their wedding.

"There are neither Incubi nor Succubi here," I said, mentioning the demons' female counterparts as well in order to prove my expertise on the subject. "Believe me, Marcella, You have nothing to fear. You'll wake up just as… erm…" I couldn't bring myself to uttering the word ´virginial´. It would have made the already difficult topic downright indecent. So I simply finished: "You'll wake up just like you were when you went to bed. Nothing bad will happen to you.". I underlined my words by patting her head in a fatherly way with my free hand.

Her reaction took my by surprise. She let go of my hand, only to fling her arms around me and hold me tight.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice muffled as she pressed her face against my chest. "But I'm so scared. Even if there are no ghosts… I've never been alone for such a long time. I don't know what to do…"

She was not the only one who didn't know what to do. I barely heard what she was saying. I was too busy dealing with the fact that there was a warm, distinctly female body pressed against me. It had been so long since the last time this had happened… so long… I couldn't even recall whether it had been before or after the fire. All I knew was that Christine and I had not embraced when I had bid her farewell.

I had known that I had missed physical contact, but until this very moment, I had not known how much I had missed it. My breath quickened, I felt my face flush, and… oh. Something else was stirring.

As gently as I could, I disentangled myself from her and took a step backwards – anything to get her away from my inappropriate physical reaction.

"It's all right to be afraid," I told her, willing my body to return to its normal state. "But I can't take you with me. What if you sleep here and I stay with you till you're asleep? I'm sure you'll slumber peacefully all night, after the exhaustion of the day. And if a ghost does turn up, I'll chase it away."

She nodded slowly, and I suppressed a sigh of relief. Finally I had found a solution we could both live with.

I kept my eyes averted while Marcella changed into her nightclothes and slipped into bed. I dragged the stool over from the dressing table and sat down next to the bed.

"Good night," I whispered. I leaned down to kiss her, but thought better of it and merely stroked her hair.

"Good night, Signor Erik," she breathed. "And thank you…" She closed her eyes, and within moments, all that could be heard was her deep, slow breathing.

I sat at her bed for a long time, watching her sleep. She was very pretty, with her hair streaming over the pillow. If there had been such beings as Incubi, they wouldn't have been able to resist her for as long as a second. But then, was I so much better than them? I was nothing but a lecherous old man, lusting after a pretty young girl who would make me forget my worries. It had been quite a while since the last time I had despised myself. Now the feeling was back.


	27. Chapter TwentySeven

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Larisse_

I was always the first to walk around in the house in the morning. I left my home at an ungodly hour, climbed into the coach that I shared with three servants who worked in the same neighbourhood and arrived at the Tavoire estate just before six. It was a good time. The house was silent. I could go through the routine of my early morning work without anyone disturbing me or demanding that I did something else. I was quite alone.

The only other person that ought to have been here but never showed up happened to be the one I missed least: Mme.Bajard. In every household I had worked in before, the housekeeper had got up sooner than any other servant. Still, I had never seen Mme.Bajard rise before seven, and no one seemed to mind. I certainly didn't mind either. It meant a little more work for me in the morning, but also a lot more peace.

Besides, I wasn't alone all the time. Marie usually joined me after a while, and we had breakfast together before she started cleaning the house. I had found her to be a very nice young woman, very similar to Jacqueline and Marielle. I enjoyed working with all of them. They were friendly, and they respected the work I did, just like I respected theirs. Taking care of four children, two of which were still so very little, wasn't an easy task, and neither was cleaning such a huge house.

When we had finished our breakfast, I often sent Marie with a cup of tea into the library, where Mme.Giry was sitting. Apart from us servants, she was the first to get up. She rarely ever ate before she left for the opera, but she did enjoy her tea while she read or took notes on what she had planned for the day.

I liked my daily routine. It gave me a sense of who I was and what I was doing. Today, however, my routine was disturbed. I knew it as soon as I approached the house, which was still and silent, its windows dark… except for one. There was light in the kitchen. I sped up and let myself into the house quickly, curious to see who had got up this early. Or was I too late? As I passed the clock in the corridor, it chimed six. I was just on time.

Maybe something bad had happened. But no, I reasoned with myself, that was not very likely. If something had happened, there would have been more light in the house, and also voices and footsteps. Yet the house was just as silent on the inside as it had been from the outside. The only difference was the strange light in the kitchen. I approached the door, convinced that I'd find either Marie or Mme.Giry.

Yet when I opened it, I saw that it was neither of them. Madame was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of water in front of her. Her head was bowed, and her hair hid most of her face. Her pretty dark curls, which were usually tied back neatly or else framed her face, hung dowm limply, as if they had never come into contact with a comb.

Madame looked up when I entered the room. I stared at her in bewilderment. Her eyes were red-rimmed, with dark circles under them, and her cheeks were flushed and tear-stained. She looked as if she had been crying all night.

"Oh God," I breathed, certain that my suspicion had to be true after all. "What has happened? Is there something wrong with one of the children? Has someone had an accident or fallen ill?"

Terrible scenarios unfolded before my mind's eye, one worse than the other. Maybe no one else was here because they were all gathered around someone's bed. Or had they even gone to hospital? Images of Jacqueline and Jacques in their hospital beds swam before my eyes. It had taken them so long to recover from the injuries they had sustained in the fire, and Jacques had never been quite the same as before. What if something even worse had happened after I had gone home last night?

"It is nothing like that," Madame said. Her voice sounded slightly hoarse, and I suspected that she had not only cried, but also suppressed sobs all night, lest someone heard her. "The children are all right. It's… it's nothing, really. I just woke up early and felt a little thirsty. That's why I came down to the kitchen."

Neither her words nor her half-hearted smile convinced me. She knew as well as I did that there was plenty of water upstairs. I had refilled the water jugs myself before I had started preparing dinner last night. No one had to go to the kitchen in order to get something to drink in this house. The only explanation that made sense to me was that after a long night of crying, Madame had not been able to stand being in her room any longer and had therefore gone to the kitchen, probably assuming she'd be alone there as well.

The question was: Why had she been crying? What had made her so miserable? If it didn't have anything to do with the children, there had to be something else that was troubling her. If only Madame had seen M.Erik when he had come to visit us last night! It might have cheered her up a little.

I was on the verge of asking her what kind of problem she had and offering her my help, when I remembered my place. I was not Madame's friend. I was one of her servants. I wasn't allowed to ask about her private life. If she decided to tell me something out of her own free will, it was all right, but I couldn't force her.

Besides, asking her what was wrong would have implied that I didn't believe what she had said about coming here in order to quench her thirst, and I couldn't do that. Good servants had to believe their masters, ot at least they had to pretend they did.

"I see," I said. "Well, you seem to have found what you were looking for. Is there anything I can do for you? Would you care for a cup of tea? It's much better in the morning that water. Or shall I make you a little breakfast? Now that you're already awake, you can as well eat something."

Madame looked at me as if I had suggested taking poison.

"No," she blurted out, and I saw one of her hands dart under the table to clutch her stomach. "No… thank you. I'm not hungry."

I looked around in the kitchen, but there were no plates or open cupboard doors or even bread crumbs on the table, nothing to suggest that she had done anything in the room but fill that one glass of water.

"You must be hungry," I argued. "You haven't had any dinner. Perhaps you're feeling sick because your stomach is empty. Or is it your head again? If your headache is still so bad that you can't even eat, we should call for a doctor. It could be something serious."

"Headache?" she repeated with a questioning undertone. "I don't have a headache. I'm just… not hungry. That can happen, you know. It's nothing to worry about."

I frowned. I had worked for quite a few families, and if someone hadn't eaten, it had nearly always been a reason to worry. I had seen terrible diseases start with the simple refusal to eat. And although Madame rarely ate much, she wasn't one of those women who lived on water and raw vegetables either. Yes, I decided that I did have a reason to be worried.

"I think it is something to worry about, Madame," I told her firmly. "I think it's best if I wake up Mme. and M.Tavoire, and they'll decide whether a doctor is necessary. I can't do it alone."

"But I can," Madame said loudly, getting up from her chair and glaring at me. "I'm not a little child that needs looking after. I can make my own decisions."

It was as if that last sentence had triggered something inside her. Madame's face fell, and tears welled up in her eyes. She bit her lip, blinking furiously. I couldn't comprehend what was going on, and still I felt guilty. Somehow, I had made her miserable again.

"Madame?" I muttered, using an especially gentle voice. "Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?"

She shook her head sadly.

"Turn back time," she breathed, her voice thick with unshed tears. "But I don't think it's in your power to do that."

"No, I can't do that," I agreed. "But you could at least talk to me. I know I'm only the cook, but… talking can help."

"Not in this case," she said. "But thank you for the offer. It has nothing to do with you. I don't want to talk to anyone at the moment. I think… I think I'll just go back to my room."

"Of course," I muttered. "Perhaps you could try to sleep a little. It's still very early. I could ask Marie to wake you up later."

Again, she shook her head.

"No, thank you," she said. "I'll… I'll just get up whenever I wake up. It doesn't matter."

Then she was gone, a lonely figure in a white dressing gown, and I was left to wonder what it could be that made such a lovely woman so sad.


	28. Chapter TwentyEight

**Author's note:** Since there won't be another update before Christmas, I'd like to seize the chance to wish all my readers a Merry Christmas. I hope you'll have a great time with your friends and families. All the best, Jenny Wren.

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

It was quite extraordinary how one person could change the lives of so many others around them. Of course, that idea was by no means new to me. Christine had changed my life, each of my children had changed my life – yes, one might even say that the Phantom had changed my life, though obviously not in a good way.

In the last years, however, my life had not changed at all. After that one big, terrible change and everything it had caused, my life had come to a halt, remaining almost unbearably dull and at least as dark and dusty as my new house. The time I spent with my children was different, but it was only a momentary ray of sunshine, unable to light up my whole life.

The unexpected arrival of Cecile had changed everything. She wasn't just a ray of sunshine. She was a big, round, yellow sun that illuminated all those people fortunate enough to be around her. It was hard to believe how much she had managed to change for the better in the little time she was here.

For one, she was a charming and witty partner for conversations, which I had found out last night. It was something I had missed very much. Talking to Jacques had never been exactly enjoyable, for he hadn't learned the merits of conversation as more than a bare exchange of facts. He tried harder since we were living so closely together, though, and I could tell that with a little guidance from his niece, his skills would improve even more.

But there was more that made Cecile's presence so pleasant. I noticed a change in the house as soon as I got up in the morning and padded across the corridor to the bathroom, wearing a dressing gown over my night clothes in case the young woman was around. Somehow, the corridor was different. All doors to the other rooms were open, and bright sunlight was streaming into the corridor, making it much less gloomy.

"It looks more cheerful this way, doesn't it, M. le Comte?" someone asked from behind me, and I spun around.

There was Cecile, already fully dressed in a black skirt and a white blouse, a charming smile on her face. Unlike myself, who had just suppressed a yawn, she didn't seem to be tired at all, despite the fact that our conversation had lasted till well after midnight. She looked utterly content, prepared to face whatever the day would bring.

"Oh yes, it does," I replied. "Much more cheerful. But how did you do it?"

She made a dismissive gesture, as if to indicate that it had been nothing extraordinary.

"I just went through the rooms, opened the doors and took off the curtains," she explained. "I put them all into a basket in the kitchen because I didn't know where your laundry is usually done. Those curtains look as if they hadn't been washed for a year. And if I may be that bold, could I suggest that you buy different curtains, at least for the rooms that are in permanent use? Those old ones are much too thick. They hardly let any light into the rooms. It's no wonder that the house looks as if someone had just died in here, if you don't mind me saying so."

Cecile didn't stand still while she talked, but bounced on the balls of her feet. She seemed eager to start with the next task. I had to admit that I was a little surprised. Sure, we had discussed the fact that she was supposed to help in the house, but I hadn't expected her to begin right away.

The woman seemed to interpret my surprised silence as a sign of disapproval. Her smile faltered, leaving her looking anxious.

"I'm sorry if I've overstepped my boundaries, M. le Comte," she said. "I didn't mean to tell you what you ought to do. It's your house. Of course you can have the curtains you want. Should I have asked you before taking them off? If you want me to, I can fetch them from the kitchen and – "

"No, no," I interrupted her hastily. "It's fine. You can take off as many curtains as you want. Anything that makes this house a little friendlier is more than welcome. To be honest, I have no idea when the curtains were last cleaned – certainly never since I've been living here. And I don't like them anyway. If you think it's a good idea, I'll buy new ones. You could help choose the colours."

I smiled at her and was pleased to see that her smile returned as well. It simply wasn't right to have such a miserable expresssion on such a pretty face.

"Of course I'll help you," she told me eagerly. "After all, I'm not only here to see the city. I want to help. You've been so generous, giving me a room, allowing me to take part in your meals. Not many people would have done that. And you're not even expecting me to pay for it. I can tell that you're just as wonderful a person as my uncle has always described you."

My cheeks flushed. It had been quite a while since anyone had paid me a compliment, especially such a nice one. I could imagine very well that Jacques had described me as a kind of ideal master, for that was what I was to him, but hearing it from his niece as well meant a lot to me.

"Let's see whether you still think that highly of me once you've lived here for a while," I warned her. "I do have my flaws as well, you know."

She gazed at me intently for a moment, and I had the absurd I impression that she was looking right through my skull, searching my head for the flaws I had mentioned. But when she grinned, I dared relax as well.

"That is good to know, M. le Comte," she said. "I've never trusted people who claim to be flawless. They have the tendency to lie in other respects as well."

Once more, I was surprised by her sharp wit. It was hard to believe that such a remarkable young woman had had nothing but the normal education, no private teacher or additional lessons. If Antoinette grew up to be such a woman, I could count myself very lucky indeed.

"Very true," I agreed. "And very nicely put."

She blushed.

"Thank you, M. le Comte," she muttered. "Coming from you, that means a lot."

She looked at me, and I looked at her. I was very conscious of her full lips and the shining hair… and of the fact that I was dressed in a dressing gown, which was hardly the most flattering piece of clothing I possessed. Quickly I changed the subject.

"So… do you already have plans for today?" I asked her, breaking the eye contact by directing my gaze over her shoulder.

"Oh, I don't know what I'll do," she replied. There was a faint air of disappointment about her, but maybe I was only imagining it. "Perhaps I should go on cleaing a little. God knows this place needs cleaning."

I had the good grace to look guilty. It was true that the house was in desperate need of some good cleaning. Naniette did what she could, but she only came a couple of times a week. I knew that I needed someone who stayed at the house all the time, someone like a housekeeper or at least a dedicated maid. Yet up to now, I couldn't bring myself to hiring someone. The mere thought of asking around in the neighbourhood and talking to dozens of applicants made me feel dizzy. I didn't have that much time, and even if I'd have had it, I'd have rather spent it with my children.

Yet even though I knew Cecile was right, I didn't want her to clean all day.

"Non, no, no," I said. "You haven't come to Paris to spend your first day cleaning an old house. You should go out, have a look around the city. There's so much to see."

"I'd like to do that," she told me. "Paris is such an interesting city. I've heard a lot about it. But how am I supposed to find my way around on my own? Uncle Jacques says he's too weak to go out, and I don't know anyone else." She looked at me. "I don't suppose you could show me around, could you?" she asked.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," I answered, meaning it. "But I'll spend all day with my children. I don't see them very often. Another day, maybe. And today, you could just walk around in the neighbourhood. You can hardly lose your way here, and if you do, you can ask someone, and they'll tell you the way back to the right address. Everybody is very friendly here."

She nodded.

"I'll do that, then," she said without great enthusiasm. "But first, I'll take off the rest of the curtains. If you excuse me…"

She walked past me and vanished inside a room. I looked after her, wondering why I sincerely wished I could have given her a different answer.


	29. Chapter TwentyNine

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

It was a lucky coincidence that the first day after my arrival at the opera was a Saturday. The day usually was a little less hectic than the rest of the week. The only exceptions were Saturdays with performances in the evenings, but I knew form Philippe that today wasn't such a day. At the moment, there were no performances at all, only rehearsals, but on a Saturday, they'd start a little later in the morning.

I knew that Mme.Giry had tried to change that habit more than once. As a person who seemed perfectly awake at all times, she had never been able to understand why it wasn't the same for the chorus girls. Yet after a few early morning rehearsals had gone horribly wrong – even wood nymphs didn't look very elegant when they were yawning widely, their eyelids drooping – she had decided that this was something she couldn't do anything against. Since not all chorus girls lived at the opera, she couldn't keep them from going out on Friday nights, which was the reason for their tiredness in the morning.

Moreover, the managers had reminded her firmly that it was all a matter of keeping the patrons happy. And the patrons weren't at all pleased if the chorus girls they wanted to go out with had to be in bed early… unless it was their bed, of course. So Mme.Giry had given in. I had been on her side, but apart from pouring vinegar into every bottle of alcohol in the managers' office, I hadn't done anything to show my anger. Even the Opera Ghost was slightly dependent on the patrons.

Yet no matter how much I disapproved of the chorus girls' comings and goings in general, today I was glad about their way of living. The absence of other people in the corridors made it much easier for me to approach Marcella's room.

In my hand, I held a bag. I had brought her breakfast, just like I had promised. I had been to the market early in the morning, when almost no one had been around. The breakfast hadn't been the only thing I had needed. A late night inspection of my cupboards had told me that almost no food was left, and the few things that still were there couldn't have been eaten without serious consequences for the health.

I usually despised such petty tasks as shopping for food, but still I couldn't have helped noticing how positively everybody had reacted to me. There had been no staring, no whispering and no pointing. It had been rather pleasant. I had begun to wonder why the Parisians had grown so tolerant all of a sudden, but then I had understood that my new mask had been the reason for their friendliness.

Walking through the corridor, I ran a finger over the edge of my mask. It was pleasantly warm to the touch, closer to the human skin than anything I had worn before. It also looked more like part of a real human face. I couldn't blame the people on the marketplace for having been fooled by it. Even Marcella, who had spent quite a lot of time with me, didn't seem to have noticed that there was something extraordinary about my face. Or maybe she had noticed something, but hadn't told me. Sometimes it was hard to know what was going on in that pretty head of hers.

Yet none of that mattered at the moment. I had no desire to draw her attention to my face any sooner than I had to, and if I could help it, neither would anyone else. I wanted her to concentrate on her musical education, and not on silly gossip about the Opera Ghost. Of course, I also didn't want to lose her loyalty, just because she heard some stupid rumours and decided to believe them.

I'd have to see the managers as soon as possible.Once I had talked to them, once I had introduced Marcella and established the bond between her and me, it would all be easier. She'd be able to walk around in the opera like all the other girls, and I'd be able to practice with her on the stage… once I'd have arranged the times with Mme.Giry and M.Reyer, of course.

The thought of Mme.Giry made me a little pensive. I was not looking forward to talking to her, but she was the ballet mistress, and I couldn't and wouldn't undermine her authority by talking to the managers only. Besides, there was one thing I could be certain of: Mme.Giry was a professional through and through. No matter what she thought of me as a person (and I could imagine vividly that it was nothing pleasant), she wouldn't let it influence her decisions as a ballet mistress. I was sure that we'd find a solution that would allow all of us to use the stage.

I was nearly there, and still I hadn't met a single person. Saturday mornings really were very enjoyable at the opera. I suddenly couldn't understand why Mme.Giry was that opposed to this pleasant way of starting the weekend. It certainly was pleasant for me because I didn't have to endure curious glances. Besides, I could be sure that there would be no rumours where the Opera Ghost was going this early in the morning and why he was carrying a bag with him.

By the time I reached the right dressing room, it was exactly nine o'clock, just like I had planned it. Smiling to myself, I knocked at the door.

"Who is there?" a small voice could be heard from inside. It sounded sleepy or scared, possibly even both.

"It is I, Signore Erik," I replied, using the name Marcella had given me. I liked the way it sounded, both respectful and familiar.

I heard footsteps, followed by scraping sounds. I wondered what Marcella was doing in there. Surely this was not the right moment to move around the furniture, was it? A few moments later, the door swung open to reveal the girl, fully dressed, but looking slightly flushed.

"What on earth were you doing?" I asked, giving her an amused smile.

She did not return it, but looked anxious.

"I woke up at night," she told me. "After you had left. There were voices in the corridor… male _and_ female voices. They were singing something… I couldn't understand all the words, but I think it was very rude. I was afraid they might try to come in here, so I put the stool against the door."

My first impulse was to laugh. The voices she had heard had doubtlessly belonged to a few chorus girls coming back late at night with their usual group of admirers. I couldn't imagine that they had had anything more sinister in mind than going to bed as quickly as possible. It made me smile to think that in a way, the girl had heard a group of Incubi and Succubi after all, albeit the kind that did everything consentually.

Yet when I saw the expression on Marcella's face, my smile vanished as quickly as it had come. If I regarded the scene from her point of view, it wasn't at all amusing. She couldn't have known that the people outside her door had been harmless. They could as well have been villains, intent on breaking down the door. And come to think of it, I was to blame as well. I could have warned her, could have told her about the usual night sounds. I had simply forgotten to do so, because to me, they were as normal as my own breathing, even after my long absence.

"I'm sorry, Marcella," I said gently. "I should have warned you that it sometimes gets a little noisy at the opera. As a matter of fact, it's noisy most of the time, but you'll get used to it. What you heard were only the chorus girls coming home. They like staying out late on Friday nights, you see."

"But what were those men I heard doing with the girls?" she asked, her eyes as round as coins. "If they were taking them home, they ought to have stayed outside, as it is proper. Or were they their husbands?"

I could only shake my head about the girls naivity. She had to be the only one in the building who seriously believed that a man and a woman had to be married in order to do what the chorus girls regarded as a good way of ending their Friday nights. Yet at the same time, her innocence touched me, and I swore to myself that I would not let her be corrupted.

"No, they were not their husbands," I replied reluctantly. "They… oh, it's difficult to explain. But I swear that I won't have you exposed to such a behaviour again. I'll have to talk to the managers about it. I'll see what I can do."

I was reminded that for a while after I had started teaching Philippe, the chorus girls had behaved a lot more decently. I had seen to it. Yet it seemed that once I hadn't been around to keep an eye on them, they had fallen back to old habits. Well, I'd have to change their behaviour again. Marcella was just as much in need of protection from a potentially dangerous environment as Philippe. Perhaps I could do something they'd both profit from.

"But let's not talk about such a topic now," I concluded after a moment. "I've brought you breakfast." I held up the bag for her to see.

"Oh, thank you, Signore Erik," she muttered. "It is very friendly of you."

"I promised that I'd bring you something to eat," I said. "And I always keep my promises. Now, you'll have breakfast, and then I'll show you the opera. I'm sure you'll like it. It's like a world of its own."


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Author's note:** I'd like to wish all my readers a Happy New Year!

**Chapter Thirty**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Meg_

If there was one thing I had learned since Christine and the children had moved in, it was that the only way of having a quiet start of the day was to get up before Antoinette did. The girl only meant well, but she had never understood why other people didn't stand up and instantly were fully awake, the way she was. In that respect, she was so much like my mother that I sometimes wondered what Christine had done when she had made her the girl's godmother.

To me, who thanks to my son never had quiet nights, a peaceful morning was essential for my well-being. So, despite the fact that it was a Saturday, I got up early, well before Antoinette would as much as think of waking up. After a visit to the bathroom I checked on Michel, but he was still asleep. I couldn't blame him. After all, he had woken me up three times the previous night. Unlike me, he could easily catch up on sleep during day-time.

I stood at his bed for a while, simply watching him. From conversations with other mothers I knew that they often had difficulties in imagining their children as adults. I had never had that problem. I was sure that Michel would look just like Jean. It was all there, in his eyes, his nose and his mouth, even in his forehead and his ears, and I was glad about it. Jean was a very handsome man, and I loved the thought that our son would grow up to look like him.

The funny thing was that Jean said it was just the other way round. He claimed that Michel looked like me and that he wouldn't want to have it any other way. It was a topic that we often talked about while we stood where I stood at the moment, watching our beautiful son sleep or play.

It was only when I threw a brief glance at the other bed that I realised how hard it had to be for Christine to watch us being the happy family she'd have loved to have herself. But then, it was not in our power to change it, was it? At the beginning, Jean and I had tried to hold ourselves back. We hadn't kissed when Christine was around, and we had kept conversations about how happy we were to a minimum. But we hadn't been able to maintain that farce for too long. We both were naturally affectionate and spontaneous people, and we enjoyed showing our affection for each other without thinking about it.

I thought back to last night. Christine had come home in such a terrible state that it had scared me slightly. While I had looked after Michel and tried to make him go back to sleep, I had pondered on what could have gone on at Raoul's house, but I hadn't found a satisfactory answer. Too many questions were open. I didn't even know whether Christine had told him about Clarille at all or whether they had argued about something else.

I wondered if I'd ever know what had happened between Christine and Raoul. She had changed a lot over the years, and not for the better. She had never been very open about her feelings, but I as her best friend had known most of what had been going on in her head. I could still remember our whispered conversations in the breaks between rehearsals, Christine's breathless voice, our giggling. I had been the first to hear that Raoul had kissed her, the first to hear about her secret feelings for her mysterious teacher.

These days, I often had the uncomfortable feeling that I knew nothing about my friend, nothing at all. One might assume that living in the same house would draw us closer together, but just the opposite was the case. The longer Christine lived here, the more she seemed to withdraw into her own world. We did still discuss her problems, but it was obvious to me that she only did it because she felt that she had to.

I thought I knew the reason for her reluctance to talk to me about her feelings: She was jealous. All day long, she had to watch Jean, Michel and me. We might not have been the ideal family, but we were happy together, and we loved each other. Christine had her children, but without a man at her side, her family simply wasn't complete. It was a different situation if a woman became a widow, of course, for it meant that at least her husband had been with her till the end. Yet in Christine's case, both men in her life had left her. She was all alone, in a completely different way that a widow.

Michel stirred in his sleep, and I pulled the blanket upwards to cover his arms and shoulders. Then I glanced over at Clarille's bed, making sure she didn't need anything. I was surprised to notice that in fact, the bed was empty. How could I have missed it the first time I had looked over at her?

Fear flooded my stomach and made its way upwards quickly. Where could Clarille be? There was no way in which the girl could have left the bed on her own. Someone had taken her with them. But I had thought I was the only one awake, with the possible exception of my mother, and why should she want to take Clarille? I simply couldn't make sense of it.

Fortunately, there was someone I could ask. Jacqueline was dozing in a rocking chair between the beds. One of the maids always stayed here at night, keeping herself in a light slumber in case one of the children needed something.

I cleared my throat, knowing it wouldn't take more to wake her up. At once, her eyes snapped open and she looked up.

"What is it?" she muttered. "Oh, it's you, Mme.Tavoire. I didn't hear you come in. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you want me to take Michel?"

"No, no," I replied. "He's still asleep. I only wanted to know where Clarille is."

"Mme. de Chagny has taken her with her," the maid told me. "About… about an hour ago, I'd say."

"Where did she take her? And why?" I wanted to know, but Jacqueline shook her head.

"She didn't tell me, and I didn't ask," she replied. "She can take her anywhere she wants, can't she? After all, Clarille is her child."

Was I imagining the slightly pointed undertone in her voice? I guessed I probably did. Jacqueline rarely spoke her mind about the situation. There were occasional outbursts, but in general, she kept her opinion to herself. I was probably hearing accusations everywhere because I felt so insecure myself.

"Of course," I said automatically. "I'll go then."

Looking down at my son, I considered taking him with me, but decided against it. He was slumbering peacefully, and I didn't want to wake him up.

"I'll come back and fetch Michel later," I added. Jacqueline nodded, and I left the room quietly.

As I made my way back down the corridor, I couldn't help wondering why Christine had taken Clarille out of bed this early in the morning. She never did so. We usually let the little ones sleep as long as they wanted and adjusted our daily rhythm to theirs. It was much better than trying it the other way round.

And where were they now? There were plenty of places to hide in such a big house, but only a limited number of them was right for a little child. I ticked them off on my fingers as I walked. The library always was a good place, but my mother would be in there at this time of day, and I assumed Christine wanted to be alone. The garden was much too cold, and the rooms of Antoinette and Philippe were occupied with sleeping children. Perhaps they were in the sitting room. Or…

The door to Christine's bedroom stood ajar. Surely this was too easy a solution. But then, a quick glance couldn't hurt. I peered into the room and saw them at once. Christine was sitting in the armchair facing the window. I couldn't be sure, but I guessed Clarille was sleeping on her lap.

"Good morning Meg," she said in a tired voice. "What brings you here?"

I frowned.

"How did you know it was me?" I asked, pushing the door open, but still standing on the threshold.

"I can see your reflection in the window," she explained.

"Oh," I made, feeling a little stupid. Taking a step into the room, I noticed that I could see her reflection as well. She was indeed holding Clarille in her arms. The girl was fast asleep.

"So?" Christine asked.

"I… I just wondered where you were," I replied. "You and Clarille."

"We're here," she said matter-of-factly. "And we're both fine. Anything else you want to know?"

"No," I muttered. "Except… I thought you might want to talk about what happened between Raoul and you."

"I don't," she stated. "Could you go now? You're waking up Clarille."

I saw that the child had indeed begun to stir in her arms and thought it best to leave.

"I'll see you later then," I mumbled, but she didn't say anything.

I turned away and made my way downstairs, hoping that a cup of tea would help me make sense of the strange conversation. For the first time, I wondered whether my life wouldn't have been much more simple if Christine wasn't staying here. It was a treacherous thought, one that scared me, and still… once it had appeared in my head, I couldn't help thinking about it. It remained in my head all the way to the kitchen.


	31. Chapter ThirtyOne

**Chapter Thirty-One**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

The good thing about the position of my room – so close to the staircase – was that I could hear everything that was going on in the house without having to go outside and actually be a part of it. This morning, I heard everyone stand up and go down to have breakfast, I heard Jean come back after a while and go to the bathroom, calling that he'd only do the work that was absolutely necessary and would try to be back as soon as possible. I knew that unlike Raoul, he was actually intending to keep his promise, though it would not necessarily work.

After he had gone downstairs again, there was silence for a while. I didn't like silence. I had had enough of it during the night. That was why I had fetched Clarille to keep me company. She was still asleep, but at least I could hear her breathing and feel her heartbeat against my chest. Still, I'd have preferred sounds, even noise, from outside. As long as I listened to it, I didn't have to listen to my own thoughts.

I got my wish about half an hour later, when the entrance door was opened. I didn't have to listen in order to know who it was. The clock had just chimed nine. Raoul was always punctual when it came to fetching the children. It was one of the things that I grudgingly admired about him: No matter how busy he was, he always fetched the children on time.

Feelings of different kinds welled up inside me, but I pushed them down. I didn't want to think about myself now. I didn't want to think at all. I just wanted to listen, like the audience of an opera. I wasn't afraid that I might have to get involved myself. If Meg had made up a story about me having a headache last night, she'd do the same today. I could rely on it.

I heard Raoul call something. He sounded very cheerful. Then there was the unmistakable noise of little feet running towards him, accompanied by cries of delight. It wasn't hard to guess that Raoul had brought the children something nice, a new toy, sweets or a pretty bow for Antoinette's hair. Unlike many fathers I had heard of, he had the ability to choose presents his son and daughter actually liked.

The voices grew louder and louder. Everyone seemed to stand right at the bottom of the stairs.

"I just want to say goodbye to Maman," Philippe explained to somebody. "I haven't see her at all today."

"No," Meg called. So she was there as well. "Your Maman is still asleep. Sleeping is the best way to cure a headache as bad as the one she had last night."

"Last night?" Raoul repeated. I could almost see him frown. "Is there… anything I should know?"

The casual tone of his voice didn't fool me, and it probably didn't fool Meg either. She knew him too well.

"No, no," she replied. "It's nothing. Just a normal headache."

"Indeed?" Raoul muttered.

I could tell that he found it hard to believe her. I, on the other hand, was pleased with the way my friend acted. I'd have hated for Raoul to know how much he had hurt me. I didn't want to appear weak.

"Yes, indeed," Meg said, and there was a certain finality in her voice.

I was sure that Raoul would have argued the matter if it had been just Meg and himself, but he was considerate enough not to voice his doubts in front of the children. So he merely announced:

"We'll go then. Tell Christine that I'll bring them back at around five. I hope the time is all right with her."

"It'll be just fine," Meg muttered. "Don't forget your coats, children. It's cold outside."

They exchanged their goodbyes, then the entrance door snapped shut. A soft sigh of relief escaped my lips. Without even realising it, I had been secretly worried that Raoul might mention the young woman who was staying with him. Of course I was aware that unless he decided to keep her locked up in her room – and it had not looked like that at all last night – the topic would come up anyway as soon as the children met her.

Yet all the same I was glad that it hadn't come up just yet. Being alone with Meg when she was curious about something was rather unpleasant, and a strange woman in Raoul's house would have triggered her curiosity at once. I was not in the mood for questions or the exchange of wild theories. I just wanted to be left alone.

My darling Clarille was my one comfort. She lay in my arms, slumbering like a little angel. Yet her sleep was disturbed when somewhere in the house a window slammed shut, as it happened every now and then when they were left open without being secured properly. Clarille opened her eyes, and her bottom lip started trembling dangerously.

"Don't cry, my love," I cooed, rocking her gently in my arms. "Don't cry. Maman is here. Nothing can happen to you. It's all right. Maman is here."

It worked. Like nearly every time when I managed to comfort her soon enough, Clarille grew cheerful again quickly. She was a good-natured child. It was only when she was with Michel that she cried a little more to keep him company.

She looked up at me, her brown eyes meeting mine. It was a silly, completely irrational thought, but sometimes, I couldn't help wondering whether she hadn't made the conscious decision to look like me as a sign that she wanted to be my daughter only, no one else's. I loved her so very much.

It was the thought of her that had got me through that terrible night. It hadn't helped much, but it had been enough not to make me lose hope completely. One might have gone so far as to say that she was the reason for my suffering, but I had never blamed her, not once. She was a wonderful child, and she had made my life better. How could I blame her for something _I_ was guilty of?

It took me a few moments to notice that Clarille was smacking her lips. It was well past the usual time of her breakfast. I struggled with myself. On the one hand, I didn't want to go downstairs and meet Meg, possibly even answer her prying questions. But then, my daughter was hungry. Well, maybe she could wait a little longer…

My selfishness was gone quickly. Clarille needed something to eat, and she would get it. How could I even think about denying her food, just because it was inconvenient for me? Any maid would care better for the child than I did. I scolded myself a little longer, then I recognised my behaviour as nothing but an attempt to delay my departure from the sanctuary of my room.

Sighing, I got to my feet, swaying slightly. I had clearly been sitting too long. The room spun before my eyes, but it was over after a moment. Perhaps something to eat would do me good as well. Besides, seeing me eat would make Larisse happy. I had been too busy wallowing in self-pity this morning, yet now I realised how concerned for me she had been. It would be good to ease at least her worries.

Slowly I made my way out of the room and downstairs. I was afraid that I might feel dizzy again on the staircase, but fortunately, nothing happened. Clarille seemed as light as a feather in my arms.

"We'll get ourselves a nice breakfast," I told her as I walked to the dining room. It was a little late, but I was not worried that nothing might be left. Larisse always made sure there was plenty of food, and she left it on the table until everyone had eaten. She couldn't believe that some people simply were not hungry in the morning.

I hadn't expected to see anyone in the dining room, except maybe a servant. Yet when I opened the door, I spotted Meg at once. She was sitting at the table with Michel on her lap, bringing a cup to his lips.

Looking up at me, she gave me a thin smile.

"Christine, what – ?" she began, but I stopped her with a gentle shake of my head.

"Look," I told her. "I don't want to talk about what happened. I just want to sit here and eat."

"All right," she gave back, shrugging in a resigned way. "I won't bother you."

"Thank you," I said, grateful for my considerate friend. I sat down on my usual seat and started feeding Clarille. Meg and I did not speak at all, yet for once, I didn't mind the silence. It was strangely comforting.


	32. Chapter ThirtyTwo

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

The morning I spent with Marcella was nicer than most mornings in my life. The girl was simply charming, delighted about everything I showed her. If her breathless voice and her flushed cheeks were anything to judge by, the opera was the most wonderful place she had ever seen. And if she had been surprised by the fact that we merely moved in passageways no one else used or even knew about, she had not shown it.

I was sorry to leave her alone in her room after a couple of hours, but there was nothing else I could do with her. I didn't want to take her with me to the managers. They hadn't seen me in years. Who knew how they'd react to my sudden appearance? I knew they'd have to meet Marcella eventually, but it could very well wait for a couple of days. I was afraid that I'd have to use more inventive methods of persuasion with the managers, and I didn't want her to see it.

A few minutes after I had left the girl's room, promising to be back in time for a late lunch, I stood in front of the managers' office and knocked. I had never understood why everyone thought me impolite. As a matter of fact, I could be very polite. I simply didn't often find people worth of my politeness. Yet in this case, it wouldn't go amiss. After all, it was not as if I wanted to argue with the managers. As long as they agreed to do exactly what I wanted, no argument would be necessary.

"Come in," M.Firmin called cheerfully.

I was a little surprised, for her hadn't even asked who was there. Did the managers let everyone into their office these days? Yet since I was being invited in that nicely, I didn't hesitate.

"Good day, Messieurs," I said brightly, walking into the room.

"You!" the managers cried in unison, the colour draining from their faces.

"I," I agreed simply. "Why are you so astonished? This is my opera. You must have expected to meet me again sooner or later."

"B-but we d-didn't see you for such a long time," M.André stammered. "W-we assumed you had retired and let the b-boy take over."

I couldn't help noticing that if there was anyone in need of immediate retirement, it were those two men. The longer I looked at them, the older they seemed to become. It was quite alarming. Their faces were full of wrinkles, and I could easily tell that the hair on their heards were elaborate wigs. Well, I thought wryly, at least no one could blame me for the signs of their ageing. After all, M.André had just admitted himself that they hadn't seen me in years. Surely my boy hadn't caused half as much mayhem as I could have done.

"Well, I'm here now," I stated. "And you even invited me in yourself. Or did you expect someone else?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," M.Firmin replied. "We were expecting M.Deboile."

The name sounded vaguely familiar to me. I thought about it for a moment and recalled that Philippe had mentioned him. He had taken over M.Reyer's post a couple of months ago, when the old man had retired. Sometimes, a good memory came in useful. I'd have lost a lot of credibility by asking about the name, when I had supposedly never been gone from the opera. At once, I adapted my strategy.

"He can listen as well," I told them. "What I'm about to say concerns him as much as it concerns you and also Mme.Giry."

"In that case, you'll be glad to hear that we're expecting Mme.Giry as well," M.André informed me. "We've arranged this meeting in order to discuss the new production and decide which opera is to be performed."

M.Firmin flinched and threw his friend a murderous glance. It was clear that he had not planned to share that piece of information with me.

"Excellent," I commented. "I've arrived at the right time then. Let us wait for the others."

I settled down in an armchair overlooking almost the entire room.

"Don't you have something to drink?" I asked conversationally. I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I had forgotten how amusing those encounters with the managers were.

My questions caused a silent battle of meaningful looks between the two men. In the end, M.André shrugged and poured me a drink from the bottle that was already standing on the desk. I accepted the glass with a nod and took a sip of the amber liquid. Brandy, and not a bad one either. The conversation could have begun in a far worse way.

But then, only two of the four important people were here yet, and they were the ones I could influence most easily. I didn't know anything about M.Deboile. Philippe had only mentioned him in passing, and I hadn't asked questions, for I had been certain that there'd be more time for details another day. For me, who tried to be prepared for everything, it was a rather unfortunate situation.

Mme.Giry, on the other hand, was someone I knew very well. Yet that knowledge didn't alter the fact that I'd have preferred talking to her alone. It would be easy for her to unsettle me with subtle remarks about Christine, and that was the last thing I needed right now.

Yet no matter how much I didn't like the situation, I couldn't do anything about it. Now that I was here, I couldn't simply walk out again and come back later. Well, as the Opera Ghost, I could have done so, but it would have cost me precious time, and I didn't have any to spare. I wanted Marcella to have a role in the next production, not in the one after that. And if I stayed now, I could also influence which opera would be chosen.

Just as I had made up my mind, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" M.Firmin called. Turning his head into his friend's direction (he seemed to have forgotten about my excellent hearing), he added: "It can't become any worse than this."

I bit back my retort, for the ballet mistress and the conductor were just entering the room. I didn't want to start the conversation with a negative remark.

Like in nearly every situation, Mme.Giry maintained her composure. Only a slight widening of her eyes spoke of her surprise to see me. I got up to greet her first. This time, she couldn't snatch away her hand as I brushed it with my lips, but I could feel her grow tense.

"Mme.Giry," I said evenly. "What a joy to see you. I hope you are well."

"Quite well, thank you" she replied stiffly.

I then looked over to the man who had entered the room after her. He was about fifteen years her junior, which put him in his late thirties. His appearance was a striking contrast to Mme.Giry with her neat dress, shiny hair and highly-polished shoes. The man's hair was dark as well, but it more resembled the explosion of a horse-hair mattress than actual human hair. It surrounded his head like a cloud, as if he had never brushed it in his life.

He was wearing a black suit, just like the managers and myself, but his was full of creases, and there were dark ink stains on his formerly white shirt. For some reason, his right sleeve was rolled up, revealing more stains on his pale arm. It was needless to say that his shoes were dirty.

Having taken in his peculiar appearance, I looked at his face. It wore an expression of mild confusion, as if he wasn't entirely sure where he was and how he had come to be there. However, he looked friendly enough. There was a set of laughter lines around his mouth and his brown eyes, which were bright, if a little dreamy.

"M.Deboile," M.Firmin said, before I had recovered enough to introduce myself. He seemed to have decided that keeping me out of the conversation was the best strategy. "It's good that you are here. We've got to make a decision as to which opera we'll perform, and we've got to make it fast. The newspapers have already asked me twice, and the printers need to know what to write on the signs."

"Newspapers… signs…?" M.Deboile muttered.

"Yes," M.Firmin said sternly. "You wanted to make a list of several operas which you think could be performed with our ensemble, and then we'd talk about them today."

The conductor nodded, but still looked confused. He rummaged in his pockets, pulling out an assortment of pieces of paper, yet none of them seemed to be the right one.

I decided that this moment was as good as any to interrupt.

"Perhaps we could do that a little later," I suggested. "You'll have to adapt your choice to the fact that there'll be a new singer in your ensemble. Her name is Marcella. I've brought her… I've _found_ her here in Paris. She has moved into her new room at the opera yesterday and will be ready to rehearse with everyone else once we've agreed on an appropriate opera."

"Another singer?" M.Firmin asked. He sounded as if I had suggested replacing the chorus with a pack of wild beasts… which, now that I thought about it, wouldn't have made that much of a difference. "But… the money…"

"Marcella will be worth her money," I stated. "She shows all the signs of a promising young singer. Besides, she's Italian, so unlike many others, she'll actually understand what she's singing about. We should choose an opera in Italian, of course."

"May I ask who you are?" M.Deboile wanted to know, still searching through his pockets. There was no insolence in his question. It was more as if he had just realised that there was someone there who usually wasn't.

"I am the resident Opera Ghost," I replied with an ironic little bow.

If I had expected him to be shocked, I couldn't have been more mistaken. He looked up at me, and his face split into a warm smile.

"It's… it's you!" he cried. The pieces of paper slipped out of his grasp and onto the floor, but he didn't pick them up. He was too busy staring at me. "You're the composer of ´Don Juan Triumphant´! I've always dreamed of meeting you, but they told me you didn't show yourself anymore these days. Your opera… it's the most extraordinary piece of music I've ever come across! I found a copy of the sheet music, and I've been studying it ever since. It's simply fantastic…"

He seized my hand and shook it for a long time.

"Paul Deboile," he added. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Why don't we go somewhere and discuss the new production, since I believe it is you who has the final word in the decision anyway? Mme.Giry can come with us, of course. And once we're finished, you can tell me more about your work. Or I can tell you about mine. As a matter of fact, I've just composed an opera you might find appropriate. There's this woman, and she has a younger sister as a confidante. Wouldn't the sister be a nice role for your protégé?"

By the time we left the managers' office, followed by a bewildered-looking Mme.Giry, M.Deboile – or Paul, as he insisted I called him – and I were deep in conversation about music. A warm glow spread through my stomach. For the first time in years, maybe even decades, I felt as if I hadn't merely found an associate, but also a potential friend.


	33. Chapter ThirtyThree

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

The day passed like a thousand others had done before it. No matter what I did, I tried to avoid thinking of the evening, when another meeting would be held. This time, it was Meg who had initiated it. She had had a word with her mother before she had left for the opera, then she had spoken with Jacqueline, who had informed me. No one seemed to have considered asking me whether I wanted to have a meeting at all. It was simply assumed that I did.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. Actually, I would have preferred having the headache Meg had invented, if only it could have saved me from another meeting. I simply didn't want to talk about what had happened at Raoul's home and compare it to what had happened with Erik. I didn't want to explain about my hurt feelings and discuss what I was going to do next.

Yet it seemed that I didn't have a choice. The meeting was already arranged, and since it was taking place in the house in which I lived, I could hardly refuse to come.They wouldn't leave me in peace until I showed up. Mme.Giry and Meg could be unbelievably persistent, especially when they were curious.

For the first time since I had moved in, the huge house felt too small. There was no place for me to hide. Restlessly I wandered from room to room, followed by the relentless ticking of the clock. Six hours till the meeting… five and a half… five… Why couldn't I simply stop the clocks and remain in this state of uncertainty? What was the point of another meeting? Why did I have to discuss every feeling I had, every step I took?

The answer came to my head unbidden.

´Because you are weak, Christine,´ a little voice in my mind hissed. ´Because you could never make up your mind. You can't expect others to treat you like an adult if you can't even make the most basic decisions for yourself. Don't complain about those meetings. You need them. You need other people to make decisions for you. Without them, you'd be all alone. And being alone is something you could never bear…´

I stopped walking abruptly as I realised just how right the voice was. I had always hated being alone. Being alone for a while, when I chose it myself, was all very well, but for a long time… No, I couldn't stand it. But then, it was like that for most people, wasn't it? I didn't think I knew anyone who actually enjoyed being alone. Even Erik had that Italian girl to keep him company. Raoul had the young woman I had seen him with yesterday, and I… well, I had Meg and her family. If I didn't take part in the meeting, however, I might lose them.

The thought shocked me. I didn't fail to realise what it implied. Had I only agreed to let others decide about my life because I was afraid of what might happen if I refused? No, that couldn't be true. It wasn't right to blame Mme.Giry and Meg for the flaws in my character.

And still… there was a grain of truth in it. In general, I was glad that others helped me decide about what had never been an easy life and was becoming more difficult by the day. Today, however, I would indeed only go to the meeting because I was afraid of the consequences if I didn't do it. I had been taught to be grateful, to accept help when it was offered. Surely I couldn't turn my back on those rules now and do what I wanted, could I?

I gave a little sigh and continued my pointless wandering. It was exactly that question which I had no answer to. Could I do what I wanted? And if yes, what _did_ I want?

´I don't want to talk about my feelings,´ I thought instantly. ´I don't want to spread them out in front of me, to be frowned upon by Meg, to be sighed about by Jacqueline and to be examined by Mme.Giry.

They were my feelings, and for once, I didn't have the need to share them with anyone. I wanted to keep them locked up in my heart, so I'd be the only one to see them. I didn't want others to judge them.

Yet how was I supposed to solve my problems without help? I had rarely ever done so, and now didn't seem to be a good moment to start. Hadn't my own decision to tell Erik and Raoul about Clarille even made my situation worse? But then, I reminded myself, I hadn't actually told them anything. The situation had grown worse all by itself. My decision had had nothing to do with it.

Still, at least I had made a decision once, which was a start. I could either go through with it or try to find a new one. The important thing was that I could do it on my own. I didn't need help from anyone.

Having such an important realisation felt like waking up from a long sleep. I looked around me, noticing for the first time that I was standing in the middle of the deserted library. So many things had happened in this room. So many memories were connected to it. It was no wonder that my feet had carried me here.

I resisted the urge to sink down on the sofa and bury my nose in a book. It were not the problems of other people I had to learn more about at the moment. It were my own. And in order to do that, I had to leave this room and go to Meg. It all was clear to me, though I couldn't have told why.

Finding my friend wasn't difficult. I went downstairs, knocked at a few doors and saw her in the sitting room, kneeling on the carpet, watching Clarille and Michel. They weren't exactly playing with each other, but it was still nice to look at. It was a peaceful scene.

"Ah, Christine," Meg said, smiling as I sat down next to her. It weas clear that she wanted us to be the perfect best friends again. "What have you been doing? Have you finished your book?"

I recalled that I had indeed excused myself after lunch by saying that I wanted to read a little. Meg and I sometimes spent the afternoons alone, doing things we usually didn't have time for. As long as the other one was there for the children, it was not a problem. Today, however, I had done something far more important than reading.

"No," I replied. "I've been thinking."

"About our meeting tonight?" Meg asked.

"No," I said again. "Well… in a way. But the thing is, Meg… there will be no meeting tonight."

My friend frowned at me, as if she wasn't sure whether I was joking.

"Yes, there will be one," she insisted. "My mother is coming home early from the opera, and Jacqueline will be here as well." She gave me a reassuring smile. "You don't have to worry. Everything is arranged for you."

Her last words hit me like a bullet straight into the chest.

"Maybe I don't want everything arranged for me!" I exclaimed, then lowered my voice, as not to frighten the children. "There will be no meeting because I don't want it to happen. I don't need it. From now on, I'll make my own decisions."

The frown returned to Meg's face, more pronouced that before. She didn't actually speak, but the sceptical expression on her face said more than a thousand words.

´Don't be ridiculous,´ it said. ´You can't make your own decisions. If you don't have us, you'll never make up your mind.´

It was quite remarkable how much Meg's thoughts sounded like that little voice in my head I had heard before. Yet I wasn't willing to listen to either of them.

"I mean it," I told her calmly. "I'm thirty-one years old, Meg. I don't want to be treated like a stupid child anymore. It's not that I'm not grateful for what you did for me.. I'm very grateful. But that time has to end now. And it will end."

"What do you mean?" she asked in alarm. At last she seemed to take me seriously.

"I'm going away from here," I answered. "I'll take the children and move out. The money that Raoul gives me every month should be enough for a flat. You'll still be able to meet the children, of course. I know how much you love them. And Clarille and Michel will see each other as well. I'd never want to keep them apart for too long."

"But… are you trying to say…?" Meg stammered.

I nodded simply.

"Yes, I do," I replied. "I'll finally tell Antoinette and Philippe that they have a sister."


	34. Chapter ThirtyFour

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

The resolution to tell my children the truth at last did not waver as I waited for my children to come back. It had felt like the right thing to do when I had first had the idea, and it continued to feel like the right thing to do. Meg made no attempt to talk me out of it either. She seemed to have understood that I had to make my own decisions and didn't utter a single word of criticism. She merely said that I had to do what I thought was best for me, because it was my life. It was about time that she realised that fact.

I knew that I should have grown nervous as the time of my children's return drew nearer, but I remained perfectly calm, almost cheerful. At last, all the lying within my little family would come to an end. Sure, Antoinette and Philippe would be astonished at first, but they'd get used to the idea of having a little sister. After all, they had already known Clarille for all her life, and I was certain that they liked her.

I wasn't certain they'd like the other big change in our lives quite as much, though. They enjoyed living with Meg and Jean. Especially Antoinette would hate the idea of moving away from Meg and her mother. She'd be worried that she wouldn't be able to go to the opera as often as she did it at the moment. Yet there was no reason to be worried, and I'd tell her so. Of course she'd still be allowed to go to the opera. I'd never keep her from doing something she loved…

…just like I wouldn't keep Philippe from going to Erik. It occurred to me that I'd have to find a flat that was close to the opera as well as to Raoul's and also Meg's houses. I knew it wouldn't be easy, and still I didn't feel worried. My lack of anxiety was getting slightly alarming. I thought wryly that maybe I had been so anxious for so long that nothing of the feeling was left inside me. It was time to feel good again. I liked that thought.

Time passed quickly while Meg and I were in the sitting room, watching the children play, rarely speaking a word. I would have liked to talk a little, but I couldn't think of what to say. Now that I had told my friend that I'd move out, all the other topics we could have discussed seemed much too unimportant. Meg probably had the same impression.

As we heard the entrance door being opened at one minute to five, I stayed behind in the room, while Meg went to fetch the children. I still didn't want to see Raoul. I knew I'd have to tell him about my decision sooner or later, but I didn't want to do it just yet. It could very well wait till I had found a flat.

Involuntarily, I held my breath as Antoinette and Philippe entered the room. The moment had come. I had to admit that I was grateful Meg had stayed outside. She seemed to have realised that this was something I had to do alone. I did feel slightly nervous now.

Antoinette, who sometimes was a little insensitive to other people's moods, didn't seem to notice how tense I was.

"Good evening, Maman," she called cheerfully. "Look what Papa gave me!"

She brandished a pretty silk scarf in different rose colours. I knew she expected me to be as enthusiastic about it as she was, so I ran a hand over the expensive fabric.

"It's beautiful," I said. "And what did your Papa give you?" I then asked my son.

"This," he replied, holding up a wooden duck painted in bright colours.

"Very pretty," I commented. "So, what have you done all day?"

At once, Antoinette launched into a long story about a park, blackbirds and delicious cake. I smiled to myself. I had known that the fastest way of securing my daughter's attention was letting her talk first. Once she was finished, she'd be ready to listen. Philippe sat down next to me on the carpet. Occasionally, he added something his sister had missed, but in general, he seemed content with her way of telling the story.

At long last, she was finished, and Philippe seized the chance to speak.

"How is your head, Maman?" he asked. "Does it still hurt a lot?"

"No," I answered. "It doesn't hurt at all, but… there is something I have to tell you. Something that might hurt you."

The serious tone of my voice made Antoinette sit down at once. I had the impression that even Clarille and Michel were listening attentively.

"I've made a mistake," I started. "A huge mistake. It began shortly after the fire in our old house. I've lied to you for years. You know that lying is wrong, of course, but when you grow older, you will find that there are situations in which lying seems to be easier than telling the truth. But that's not true. One lies only causes another lie, and another, and once you've started, it becomes very hard to stop. Still, I've decided to stop lying and tell you the truth at last."

Instead of going on immediately, I threw a glance at Clarille, at my youngest daughter. I had to remind myself who I was doing this for. Then I looked back at my other children.

"Clarille and Michel are not twins," I said. "They were not born on the same day, and they are not brother and sister, even though we raised them like it. Michel is the son of Meg and Jean, as you know, and Clarille… Clarille is my daughter. That makes her your sister."

For a moment, there was silence. Yet silence never lasted too long when Antoinette was around.

"Why didn't you tell us?" she burst out.

I should have guessed that this was the aspect that hit the girl most. She couldn't bear the thought that she hadn't known about something that important.

"I was afraid that you might not understand it," I replied. "You were still very young back then. We – Aunt Meg, Uncle Jean, Aunt Antoinette, Jacqueline and I – hid it from everyone, not just you. People can be very strange, and if they heard… But you're right. I should have told the two of you."

"Why did you hide it at all?" Antoinette went on. "I mean… Clarille is just a normal child, isn't she?" She eyed the little girl curiously, as if expecting to see that she had sprouted an extra pair of arms or fur all over her face.

"Yes, she is," I answered firmly. "But…"

I broke off and let out a sigh. This was much more difficult than I had anticipated. Perhaps my strategy not to think about the conversation too much hadn't been that brilliant after all. I should have prepared a few good answers. After a few moments' thinking, I decided to simply be honest.

"You know how difficult the situation with your Papa and Uncle Erik was at that time," I said, and she nodded. "They never liked each other, and I didn't want to make it even harder by bringing a child into it. You see, I… I'm not sure who Clarille's father is. It could be either your Papa or Uncle Erik."

So. I had said it. It hadn't been that hard after all. Then I remembered that the truly difficult part was yet to come. Anxiously I waited for Antoinette's reaction.

"Oh," she made. "You mean that Uncle Erik and you…?"

"Yes," I muttered quickly, blushing. "While your Papa was in Norway, and Erik and I lived like husband and wife… That is one of the reasons why your Papa is no longer living with us. I couldn't make up my mind who I love more and wanted to be with, so I decided that being with neither of them was the best solution. And then I discovered that I was with child and hid it because I was afraid of what everyone would say."

Antoinette nodded slowly. I'd have loved to know what was going on in her head.

"Why are you telling us all that now?" she asked after a moment.

"Because I realised that it was wrong to keep a secret from you," I replied. "I would have told you anyway, sooner or later. Once Clarille will be older, it would have been too difficult to keep it secret. She has always known that I'm her mother, of course. But the reason why I'm telling you today is that I've decided to move away from here. It was very generous of Meg and Jean to let us live with them, but the time has come for us to find a place for ourselves. And naturally, we'll take Clarille with us."

"We're moving?" Antoinette exclaimed. "But we'll still see Aunt Meg and Aunt Antoinette, won't we?"

"Of course we will," I assured her. "We'll see them very often. Meg is my best friend, after all, and though Clarille and Michel are no real siblings, they've grown used to being with each other all the time. And I expect Aunt Antoinette will still take you to the opera as often as possible."

"Good," she commented, smiling in a satisfied way.

I knew it wasn't over yet. There'd be more questions, a lot more, once she'd have had the time to think it all over. But for the moment, I was rather content with myself and my daughter. It was only then that I remembered someone who hadn't spoken a word in the entire conversation, though I was sure he had listened.

Looking over at my son, I saw that he had pulled Clarille onto his lap, which was something he had never done before, at least not that I knew of.

"This must be a real shock for you," he whispered into the little girl's ear. "Having Antoinette as a sister, I mean. But I'm your brother now, and I'm much stronger than I look. I'll protect you if Antoinette starts teasing you or takes your toys away. I won't let anything bad happen to you."


	35. Chapter ThirtyFive

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

**November 7****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I had expected that the children would never be able to go to sleep, just a few hours after hearing the exciting and possibly also worrying news that they had a sister they hadn't known about. Yet to my surprise, just the contrary was the case. Antoinette seemed to have burned all her reserves by asking countless questions for the rest of the evening, and Philippe, who had let his sister do the talking and hadn't said all that much himself, was obviously tired after the long day with his father.

Only about half an hour later than usual, the children were fast asleep in their beds. I had just thrown a last glance into Antoinette's room and was about to close the door when I was joined by Meg.

"How did it go?" she asked in a concerned voice. "I mean, if you want to talk about it… You don't have to, of course…"

"It's all right," I assured her.

I was touched by the effort she made. She really seemed to have understood something. Yet now that I didn't have to, I felt that I wanted to talk, though perhaps not about every detail. But I wanted to prove that my decision to tell the children what they needed to know had been right.

"It went rather well," I said. "I simply told them the truth, and they accepted it. Antoinette had a thousand questions, as you can probably imagine, but that's normal for her."

"Questions? What about?" Meg asked. "About Erik and you?"

"No, fortunately not," I replied. "I wouldn't have had any idea what to say about that topic. No, her questions mainly were about the flat we'll have. Will she have her own room there? Will it be as big as her room here? Will there be enough space for her to practice dancing? Will the flat be close to the opera?"

"And what did you tell her?" my friend wanted to know.

"The truth," I answered simply. "I told her that I didn't know what kind of flat we'll live in, but I'll try to bear her wishes in mind."

Meg frowned.

"And was she content with those answers?" she asked.

"No," I said with a little laugh. "You know Antoinette. She won't be content until she has picked the flat herself. But I'm afraid it'll be money that has the final word. We won't be able to afford the kind of splendour she's used from this house."

"If there's anything Jean and I can help you with…" Meg started, but I interrupted her.

"No," I said firmly. "I'm grateful for all the things you did for me, but I can't accept any more help from you. We'll get by. Raoul gives me enough money. We won't have a flat with twenty rooms, like your little palace here, but Antoinette will have to get used to it."

Meg looked at me with a very strange expression on her face.

"You're really doing this," she muttered, sounding half surprised, half awe-struck. "You're really doing this."

"I have to," I told her. "I've been relying on others far too long. It's time to live my own life."

Silence followed my words. Meg and I turned away from the door of Antoinette's room and made our way down the corridor, towards the nursery. It was our usual evening routine. I had sometimes considered it a little boring to do everything in the same way. Today, however, it made me almost wistful. I wondered how many times I'd still be doing it. Ten times, maybe only five? How long would it take me to find a flat and leave Meg's home for good? I was looking forward to living alone, I really was, but… I hadn't quite grown used to the thought yet.

"When will you tell Erik and Raoul?" Meg asked, putting an end to my pondering.

"Actually… I wasn't planning to tell them at all," I admitted. "The children can do it. I guess Antoinette will tell Raoul the moment he comes to pick them up the next time, and Philippe will tell Erik. It's not that I don't want them to know where they can find me," I added hastily, seeing the sceptical expression on Meg's face. "I just… don't want to see them."

"But you will tell them about Clarille, won't you?" my friend wanted to know. "Won't you?" she repeated when I didn't reply right away.

"Actually…" I said again. "I've changed my mind about it. Now that there's a new woman in both their lives…" I shrugged, trying my best to sound casual. "They wouldn't want me anymore, with or without the child."

"What do you mean?" Meg gasped. "Raoul has…?"

I had completely forgotten that I hadn't told her about it yet. But it didn't matter either way. Briefly I outlined what I had seen last night.

"So you have to understand that I couldn't have possibly told him about Clarille," I finished.

"But maybe it was not the way it seemed," Meg argued, her eyes shiny with curiosity. "Maybe the woman really was who her said she was. It's not impossible, is it? If you's just go to him and – "

"No," I said flatly. "I don't want to. He has his life, and I have mine. If he wants to change that… well, he'll know where to find me. The same goes for Erik."

"But don't you want to meet him?" she asked. "I mean, really meet him, just the two of you?"

I stared into space for a moment, barely aware that we had reached the door to the nursery. It was such a tempting idea, Erik and I talking alone, without that Marcella to distract us. But then…

"What would be the point?" I muttered, my high spirits evaporating as quickly as they had appeared. "Even if he agreed to meet me alone, which I'm not sure he would, it wouldn't change a thing. It wouldn't make the girl vanish. She's there, and they are in love with each other. Talking would only tear open old wounds."

Meg opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"It's your decision," she said after a moment. I could hear how hard it was for her to utter those words. "So you won't tell the men about the child. I can understand that. But what about everyone else? I mean, people will be bound to notice that there will be one child less in this house and one child more in another one. Are we supposed to tell the neighbours that Clarille simply disappeared? And how will you explain that she's with you?"

I turned around to face her, realising that we couldn't enter the nursery before we had discussed the matter. Our loud voices would wake up the little ones. Fortunately, I had already given the problem some thought.

"I'll move into a part of Paris where no one knows me," I told her. "It has been such a long time since my name was in the newspapers. The chances of someone recognising me after all those years in which I haven't been on stage are remote. And who will care whether a woman no one has ever seen before has two or three children? I don't know what we'll do about this neighbourhood, though…"

I glanced at my friend hopefully and instantly hated me for it. Hadn't I wanted to do everything on my own? Why was I asking for help yet again?

Yet Meg didn't seem to mind. She gave me a warm smile.

"We'll find a solution," she promised. "It can't be that difficult…" She screwed up her face in concentration. "Yes, that could work," she muttered after a few moments. "We've never taken the little ones outside too often, have we? So it will hardly make any difference to the neighbours if I let Michel stay inside from now on. I'm sure they won't grow suspicious as long as they see Clarille and Michel every now and then, and that could be done when you come to visit us. They'll never know that just one child actually lives in the house."

"Good idea," I praised her. "It's just like Erik arranged it for the time of his absence."

"That is where I got the idea from," she admitted. "It worked well for Erik, so I thought it would work for us, too. It also has the advantage that it involves no lying."

"That is always good," I commented. I didn't have to tell her how tired I was of lying. Then a new thought sprang to my mind. "What about your servants, though? They'll notice Clarille is gone."

"Well, I guess we'll have to fill them in on the secret, at least on the part they need to know," Meg replied with a little sigh. "But I'm sure they won't tell anyone. Marie has been with us since she was fourteen years old, and Mme.Bajard… well, she's more loyal than she looks. Besides, she knows that she wouldn't find another job at her age… at least not one that pays so well."

"I'll have to tell Larisse, Marielle and Gabriel, too," I mused aloud. "But they all know how to keep a secret. Some of them will have to look for new positions, though. Jacqueline and Larisse will come with me, of course, and maybe also Marielle, but I don't think I'll still need a coachman. I probably won't even have a coach."

"We'll find a solution," Meg repeated kindly. "A good coachman like your Gabriel will easily get a new job. There's just one more thing…" She threw me a sad glance.

"Yes?" I asked in a small voice. What else had I overlooked?

"I'll miss you when you're gone," she said softly. "You'll always be my best friend."

"I'll miss you, too," I whispered, pulling her into an embrace. I knew that no matter how far away I'd move and how many other things would happen to me, I'd always remember this moment of perfect friendship.


	36. Chapter ThirtySix

**Author's note: **Please make sure to pay attention to the change both in time and in point of view. Otherwise, you'll get all confused.

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I woke up, and for a moment, I thought everything was fine. I felt that there was someone sitting next to me, and I smelled the sweet scent of fresh tea. Wasn't it nice of Raoul to have made me breakfast? Or was it Erik who had done it? I had no idea, and it was that confusion that woke me up properly. I opened my eyes.

Larisse was standing next to my bedside table, smiling down at me. What I had taken to be someone sitting at the foot of my bed turned out to be a pile of sheets.

"I'm sorry, Madame," she said. "I didn't mean to disturb you. But you have to get up. I've brought you breakfast."

She pointed at the bedside table. I straightened up a little and turned my head slowly. At least I hadn't imagined the scent. It came from a cup of tea that stood on a tray, next to a plate with rolls and butter and two jars with honey and jam.

"Thank you, Larisse," I mumbled, pulling myself into a sitting position. "It's just what I need."

There was no irony in my words. A decent breakfast was always a good incentive to get me out of bed these days. I seemed to have regained a lot of my old appetite in the last month. Minutes after I had reached for the first roll, my plate and cup were empty.

Larisse beamed at me. She looked delighted, as if I had mastered a very difficult task – much more difficult than eating breakfast. I had noticed that she often looked at me that way, whenever I remembered an important date or helped the children get dressed in time to send them to their teachers, for instance.

I knew she hadn't been sure whether I'd get by on my own, and I didn't blame her for it. I hadn't been sure myself. Yet it was a fact that I did get by. I had even started developing a new routine for how I spent my days, though it was not as rigid as the one I had had at Meg's home. I didn't feel that I needed it anymore. My little family was happy, and that made me happy.

My fear of being alone had been the worst fear I had had when I had left my friend's house. I had dreaded the long hours in which Antoinette and Philippe would be gone and I'd be alone with Clarille. Yet it had turned out that it wasn't that bad after all. For once, I was not alone all the time. Even when Jacqueline had left with the children, there was still Larisse to keep me company. And if she wasn't around either, I could always go to Mme.Marandette.

I smiled to myself as I thought of her kind face, the rosy cheeks, the pale blue eyes and the long grey hair tied back in a bun. It was impossible to think of her without smiling. She was one of the nicest people I had ever met.

I had liked her from the first moment I had seen her. Fortunately, the feeling had been mutual. Any other elderly woman would have shaken her head about the very idea of renting the first floor of her house to a woman with three children and two servants, but no husband. Yet she had actually preferred me to all the other people she could have had, claiming that she liked a little noise in the house. Her life seemed to have become very quiet since her husband had died half a year ago.

I loved sitting downstairs in the cosy living room, listening to Mme.Marandette's stories about the old times while I played with Clarille. The good thing about the woman was that she never asked prying questions about me. She hadn't even wanted to know why I was living alone with my children. She left me my privacy, and that was something I enjoyed very much. While I was with her, I could forget my old life. Yes, that was what I called it, even though it had only ended a month ago. It felt like so much longer…

"Madame? You really shouldn't fall asleep again."

Larisse's voice seemed to come from very far away. Startled, I realised that I had indeed nodded off, losing myself in the world of my own thoughts.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, stifling a yawn with my hand.

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Larisse stressed. "Another day, I'd gladly let you go back to sleep, but not today. Antoinette has been awake for two hours already. She claims that she couldn't possibly sleep any longer because she's so excited and there are so many things to do. If you don't get up soon, I'm afraid she'll come here herself, and she won't be pleased to see you still in bed on her big day."

It took my sleepy mind a few moments to figure out what she was talking about. Of course. Tonight, Antoinette would dance in a performance of the chorus girls. It would be a little performance, for the patrons and parents of the younger girls only, but it would take place on the real stage, with the real orchestra, and that alone was enough to excite my daughter to no end. It was a rare privilege that she, who was no member of the chorus, was allowed to take part. She had been talking of little else in the last weeks.

"I know, I know," I said, trying my best to appear awake. "I'm getting up." I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, which seemed enough to convince Larisse that I was serious. She seized the breakfast tray, announced that she's be back later to change the sheets and left the room.

All the time while I stood up and pulled my dressing gown over my nightdress, there was this strange nagging sensation in the pit of my stomach. It was only when I closed the dressing gown that I could identify the feeling as anxiety. Today would also be the day when I'd meet both Erik and Raoul. As Antoinette's father, Raoul would attend the performance, of course, and Erik would surely be there as well. I let out a sigh. It seemed that my old life wasn't that far away after all.

_Erik_

I woke up, and for a moment, my foolish mind was convinced that everything was just fine. My back was aching, and I realised that I had fallen asleep not in bed, but in a chair next to a bed. The sweet pain made me smile. This had happened countless times already while I had been watching over Christine's sleep. The mere sight of her beautiful face would make it all better.

Yet even without opening my eyes, I knew that something was wrong. The light filtering through my closed eyelids was coming from the wrong direction. I turned my head slowly, blinking. The light came from the window, just like I had thought… but the window was at the wrong side of the room. Turning my head into the other direction, I saw that the rest of the room was wrong as well. This was not Christine's dressing room.

Feeling vaguely uneasy, I looked down at the girl in the bed. My suspicion was confirmed: Just like the room wasn't the one I had expected to wake up in, the girl wasn't who I had thought she was. For once, her hair was too dark. So was the colour of the arm lying upon the blanket. Christine had never had such a tan. Her skin had always remained pale, like porcelain.

There was no denying that I was fully awake now, but I'd have preferred it to be different. It had been such a good dream, and so vivid. A brief glance down at myself told me that in fact, it had been a little too vivid. Fortunately, the girl in the bed was still slumbering soundly and would remain asleep for quite a while. Judging by the intensity of the light (or rather, the lack thereof), it couldn't be much later that seven in the morning.

I tried to focus on something that would change my embarrassing physical state. Finally, I settled for the performance that would take place tonight. Since Marcella wasn't a dancer, she wouldn't participate, but she and I would sit together in Box Five. It would be the closest thing to a real opera she'd see before taking part in one herself.

Marcella was very excited. So was I, though for a different reason. Tonight would be the first time in more than a month that I'd see Christine. I had invited her to come and talk to me several times, but the letters had been returned unopened. I didn't even have the chance to see her when she brought Philippe to the opera or picked him up, for she always sent Jacqueline to do it.

I stretched my arms, feeling stiff from sitting on a hard-backed chair all night. I would have never dared bring up the subject, but I did wish Marcella would lose her fear of sleeping alone. It was not as if I didn't want to help her. My bones just weren't as young as they had once been. But then, at least I made her happy. It was more than I managed to do for most people these days.

_Raoul_

_I woke up, and for a moment, I thought everything was as it had once been: a comfortable bed and a warm body next to me. Surely Christine would wake up as well any moment. She'd smile at me and wish me a good morning, and I'd be happy to see her._

_Yet as I groped for the sleeping form next to me, I noticed that something was different. The smell coming from the sleeping woman was too flowery, not at all like Christine's rose-scented soap and the perfume she used. Then I saw that her hair wasn't dark, but red. The woman mumbled something I couldn't understand and turned over to face me._

_"Good morning, darling," Cecile said, her green eyes shining. "Did you sleep well?"_

I woke up with a start, groaning as I hit my head on the bedpost. Since this evidently was reality, everything that had happened before had been a dream. The space next to me was empty. So was my life. I was alone.


	37. Chapter ThirtySeven

**Author's note: **This chapter has taken me ages to write. I'm so sorry, guys. I simply didn't have time. I have important exams all next week, and I have to study. It'll become better after next week, I promise. Thanks for your patience!

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

I avoided Cecile's eye at the breakfast table this morning, since I still felt embarrassed about my dream. I had considered not turning up at all, but it would have been too suspicious. Besides, I was hungry, and if I didn't show myself at the table, Jacques would probably send his niece to bring me breakfast, which would only serve to make my situation worse. So I simply sat down on my usual chair and pretended to be very interested in a bird sitting on the window sill.

My silence seemed to go unnoticed. Cecile and Jacques were talking merrily, despite the early hour. If there was someone who had changed in the weeks since the young woman had arrived here, it was her uncle. The change wasn't visible at the first glance. He was still an old, stiff-legged man. The change was on the inside. I had known him for all my life, and I had never seen him that cheerful before.

Sometimes, I woke up to the sound of him whistling a merry little tune as he went about his usual work. Even his conversation skills had improved considerably since his favourite niece had come to live with us. We could actually speak to each other for several minutes without him mentioning work once. It was quite astonishing.

And then there was Cecile herself. She was bright and vivacious… and very pretty. Yet if I had been afraid that she'd be glued to my side and try to do everything with me, I couldn't have been more mistaken. When I had refused to show her the city, she had simply bought a map and begun to explore Paris on her own. She hadn't seen half of what she wanted to see, but I was sure that she'd do so in the end. She was a very determined young woman.

She hadn't asked me to take her anywhere a second time, even when I left in the coach and could have easily dropped her off somewhere. I wasn't sure how I felt about it. On the one hand, it made me a little sad. After all, there were far worse things that could happen to a man than driving through the city in the company of a pretty young woman. I had secretly been looking forward to telling her more about Paris.

Yet on the other hand, I was glad she hadn't asked me again. I wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, least of all her, but sometimes, Cecile's presence made me uneasy. She was too pretty, too friendly, too charming – too appealing to resist her for much longer. Yet resisting was exactly what I had to do. I couldn't possibly approach her on that level… or could I?

In one of those long, sleepless nights – which I actually preferred to those in which I had dreams that didn't leave much to the imagination – I had worked out that there were two main reasons why I couldn't approach her. There were others, of course, but I thought I could deal with them easily once the other two problems were solved.

I found myself thinking a lot about those problems. It didn't surprise me that they came to my mind again as I sat at the table, staring out of the window, the conversation of Cecile and Jacques a mere background noise.

The first problem was that I couldn't be sure what Cecile felt for me. Was I nothing but the employer of her uncle, or was there a deeper interest in me? She always was very friendly to me, but that didn't count as a sign that she liked me. She was friendly to everyone, from Naniette to the delivery boy who brought me letters. Sometimes, I thought that her gaze lingered on me a little longer than it was necessary, but that could very well be just my imagination.

I had to remind myself that even if she was interested in me, she couldn't show it in any obvious way. It wouldn't have been decent to do so for a woman. Though Cecile hadn't been brought up in the same elitist circles of society as I had, she knew very well how to behave. She'd have never gone so far as to approach me and ask me what I thought of her. It was a small miracle that she had asked me to show her the city in the first place, and it was not at all surprising that she hadn't done so a second time.

There would have been ways to find out about her feelings, of course. I had been with the same woman for a long time, but that didn't mean that I had forgotten all about courting. I could have bought Cecile flowers or I could have asked her to go to dinner with me… if I had wanted to.

And that was just the heart of the second problem. I didn't know whether I truly wanted her to be interested in me. I didn't even know whether I was interested in her. Well, I obviously was interested in her in a certain way, or I wouldn't spend so much time thinking of her, but the question was whether I really wanted something to happen between the two of us.

I knew that in order to answer that question, I had to find out what I felt for Christine first. I was not like other men. I couldn't love more than one woman at the same time. If I still loved Christine, I didn't love Cecile. It was very simple.

Well, at least it would have been simple if my feelings for her hadn't been that hard to fathom. It would have been easier if I had been allowed to meet her every now and then, but she avoided me. I had only seen her a couple of times when I had fetched the children (I always did so myself these days), and she had never uttered more than a casual greeting.

Moreover, my feelings for her seemed to change a lot. When I picked up the children from her house, and she more or less slammed the door in my face, I felt nothing but anger. I couldn't understand why she was so cold and showed so little interest in whether I knew anything about her life. She hadn't even told me in person that she'd move houses, but sent Antoinette to do it.

I still had no idea why she had moved at all. I would have understood if she had decided to move in with the Phantom. Well, at least I'd have understood it on a rational level, which didn't mean I'd have been happy about it. But why on earth had she moved out of Meg's home and into the house of an elderly lady? It was one of the many things I'd probably never know. That lack of knowledge was another reason for my anger.

When I thought back to the old times, however, I couldn't keep my heart from swelling with a sad kind of joy. Life had been so wonderful then. We had been so happy together. And now, nothing of that happiness was left. But maybe it could be restored. If only Christine let me get a little closer to her…

But she did not, and that was what added a good amount of sadness and resignation to my feelings. I couldn't help thinking that for her, our marriage was over, damaged beyond the slightest chance of repair. She didn't tell me anything about her life because she thought it no longer necessary to keep me informed. I was no longer part of he life.

I reminded myself that tempting as it was to think about it, Christine and her feelings were not the subject of my internal discussion. The point was not whether she loved me, but whether I loved her. And that was something I simply didn't know. I longed for a time when my feelings had still been easy to understand. Had there ever been such a time?

Maybe I simply had to avoid Cecile for a while, at least till I was sure about my feelings. Yes, it sounded like a good solution. I could leave the house early and not return until evening. Perhaps I could even –

"…but only if you approve of it, M. le Comte."

The sound of my name, spoken by Cecile, pulled me out of my thoughts.

"Oh… yes, yes, of course," I replied, trying my best to pretend I had been listening attentively all the time. Taking a sip of coffee from my cup, I shuddered, realising it was stone-cold. How long had I been lost in thought?

"Really?" Cecile asked, sounding delighted. "I'm so glad you agree. You won't regret it, I promise!" She jumped up from her chair and left the room quickly, calling, "I have to go at once and look for a decent dress".

I cleared my throat and turned to face Jacques.

"Erm… what did I just agree to?" I wanted to know in a casual voice.

The old man looked at me with something very close to a smirk.

"You've agreed to take Cecile to the performance tonight, M. le Comte," he answered, obviously fighting the urge to burst into laughter. The puzzled expression on my face had to look very amusing.

I scowled. This was certainly not the right moment for him to develop a sense of humour.


	38. Chapter ThirtyEight

**Author's note:** Thank you for your patience! I sat and passed my exam, which makes me very happy, and I think I should be able to post more often now.

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

I stopped playing and looked up at Marcella. This was the fourth time that she had missed the beginning of her song because she was too busy staring into space. It was not like her at all. Usually, the girl listened to me playing only once or twice before she knew exactly at which point she had to start singing. Four times… there had to be something wrong with her.

"Is anything distracting you, la mia cara?" I asked gently, looking around, even though there wasn't much in the room to distract her.

The small room was furnished with nothing but a few chairs, a table and the piano in the corner. There weren't even windows or pictures on the walls. That was exactly why I had chosen this room for our lessons. I wanted Marcella to focus on nothing but her singing. In general, I had the impression that it worked very well, but today, it seemed hopeless.

From the moment she had entered the room, the girl had appeared preoccupied. At first, I had blamed the excitement about the performance, but the longer I watched her as she sang (or at least attempted to do so), the more I was convinced that there had to be another reason. She didn't seem to be excited, but nervous and worried.

"It is nothing," she muttered. "Non ho… I didn't sleep well, and now I'm… stanca… tired."

I nodded, smiling about her attempt to express her thoughts in French. She didn't always succeed, but she had made a lot of progress since she had arrived here. Besides, it was true that she hadn't slept well. I had sat at her bed all night. If someone knew about her nightmares, I did. Still, her answer wasn't good enough. I knew the girl very well by now, and she didn't look sleepy at all.

"I think there is something else," I said flatly, careful not to accuse her of lying. "Don't you want to tell me? You know you can tell me everything."

Marcella continued to stare at her shoes for a few moments, then she seemed to come to a resolution and looked up at me.

"It is the performance," she told me in barely more than a whisper. "I… I cannot go there."

"Why not?" I asked blankly.

As far as I knew, she had been looking forward to the performance. Whenever it had been mentioned, she had spoken about it very enthusiastically. I couldn't understand her sudden change of mind.

"Tell me, Marcella," I added a moment later, sensing that she was searching for an excuse again.

"I don't have anything to wear," she burst out. She was speaking Italian now, but I didn't mind. I knew that she had to get out whatever she wanted to say. "All the other people will be dressed elegantly, just like you. But I don't have such clothes. I'll make a fool of myself, and you… you'll regret having taken me with you."

She threw me a miserable glance, her eyes shining with tears. Then she looked down at her shoes once more.

I gave a little sigh. She was right. None of the clothes she had brought with her were appropriate for the occasion. Why hadn't I thought of it before? The answer was simple: My head had been too full of other thoughts to consider the matter of clothes for as long as a moment. After all, it was easy enough for me. I'd be wearing a black suit, just like I always did. It was far more difficult for women.

"You could have told me about it before," I said gently. "We could have solved the problem immediately, and you needn't have worried."

"I didn't want to be ungrateful," Marcella replied. "You give me so much. You bring me all the food I want, I can live here for free, you teach me… I didn't want to ask for a dress as well. I thought I could simply wear one of my old dresses, but yesterday, I overheard two of the chorus girls talking about the kind of clothes the ladies in the audience are going to wear, and…" She shrugged.

Following a sudden impulse, I jumped up from my seat at the piano. Ever since that first embrace, I had avoided physical contact, but now the urge to comfort her was overwhelming. I embraced her quickly, for just a moment or two, then let go again. Marcella looked surprised, but also pleased, which was what I had been hoping for.

"Of course I'll buy you a dress," I told her. "I'll buy you a dozen dresses. You don't have to worry about money. I have more than enough of it, and I'd love to spend it on someone I… someone who means a lot to me."

Inwardly, I congratulated myself for having stopped my tongue just in time. I was reluctant to talk about what I was feeling for the girl… mainly because I didn't know it myself.

Marcella beamed at me.

"Thank you, Signore Erik," she said. "That is very generous of you. But isn't it too late? The performance will take place tonight. Surely no tailor could be that quick. Even my mother needs several days to make a dress, and she is very fast." The expression on her pretty face grew serious again.

I frowned. That was something I hadn't taken into consideration.

"Maybe someone could lend you a dress," I mused aloud, thinking about the women I knew.

One thing was certain: I could ask neither Meg nor Mme.Giry. Ever since I had returned, our relationship had been cold, almost hostile. When we met at the opera, the ballet mistress and I exchanged a few words, but we never spoke about anything personal. I could imagine very well what she'd say if I asked her for a dress for Marcella. It was not something I was eager to experience. Besides, I doubted that a dress that belonged to her or Meg would fit Marcella.

I could always force the chorus girls to give me something, but I didn't think they possessed the kind of clothing that was right for the occasion. Who else did I know who could help me?

I inhaled sharply. Christine… Not Christine the way she was today, of course. Giving birth twice had made her far too womanly to have clothes for Marcella. But then, I still had a wardrobe filled with copies of her clothes. I had given up the habit of replacing them after she had found out about it. It had simply not felt right anymore. I still had all of them. I couldn't have brought myself to throwing them away.

I didn't know too much about women's sizes, but guessed that some of the dresses I had bought in earlier years would fit Marcella, and many of them had been made for formal occasions. On the first glance, nothing spoke against telling the girl to come and have a look at them. Still, I wasn't sure whether I wanted her to have those clothes. Even though Christine had never worn them, they belonged to her, at least in my imagination. What did it say about me that I as much as considered giving them to Marcella?

It meant that I replaced one woman with another, like I had once dressed a dummy in Christine's wedding gown. Yet the dummy hadn't been alive. It hadn't been able to think for itself. It hadn't felt anything when it had worn the dress. It would be different with Marcella.

Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I forced myself to look at the girl, who was waiting patiently. She had learned not to interrupt me. Yes, it would be different with her. She would think and feel. She would be happy if I gave her a dress that she could wear at the performance. I didn't want her to be miserable, just because I was stubborn, clinging to the past.

"You will get a dress," I promised her. "I've just remembered that I happen to have some at my home. They belonged to a… a friend of mine, but she no longer needs them," I added quickly, as she eyed me curiously. "Why don't I just bring you to your room now?" I suggested, before she could think too much about why a man was harbouring women's clothes in his home. "We've practiced enough for today. You can wait in your room, and I'll fetch a few of the dresses. You'll be able to see for yourself which one you like best."

"I could also come with you," Marcella offered. "I could choose a dress right away, and you wouldn't have that much to carry."

I knew that her offer was more than the simple wish to help me. Up to now, the girl had not set foot in my house. She didn't even know where it was located. I always brought her to her room after lessons, so she didn't see where I was going, and when Philippe visited me, she was never present. I could understand that she was curious about where I lived, but I didn't think she was ready yet.

"No," I said. "Thank you, but it's not necessary. I'll bring the dresses to you."

Marcella looked a little disappointed as I led her out of the room, but she didn't argue the matter. She never did.


	39. Chapter ThirtyNine

**Author's note:** I have good news and bad news. Finally, I have more time for writing. Unfortunately (though not for me), I'll be on holiday in London from Tuesday till the 7th of March. But I'm sure I'll get a lot of inspiration from seeing POTO again.

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

The day passed so quickly that I could hardly believe where the hours had gone. Antoinette whirled through the rooms like an overly excited butterfly. She always had difficulties with sitting still and doing nothing, but today, it was worse than ever. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make her calm down.

The situation nearly escalated in the early hours of the afternoon. Antoinette couldn't find her favourite hair ribbon and accused her brother of having taken it away. My reasoning as to why on earth Philippe should bother to steal a hair ribbon fell upon deaf ears. At the end of a heated debate, the boy left the living room in tears and sought refuge in his room.

I stricly forbade Antoinette to go after him and continue their fight, possibly even searching his room for the missing hair ribbon. Instead of that rather pointless activity, I went through all the places I could think of and found the elusive ribbon under my daughter's dressing table. At once, she claimed that her brother had put it there, but I cut across her and explained that the hair ribbon must have fallen from her dressing table, which was always untidy and overflowing with all kinds of items.

Antoinette seemed to accept the explanation reluctantly, but before I could ask her to apologise to her brother, we heard a coach stop in front of the house. Since we no longer owned one ourselves, I had arranged for Antoinette to go to the opera with Mme.Giry, who naturally had to be there just as early as the dancers.

Obviously glad about the chance to get away, the girl grabbed her clothes, gave me a brief kiss on the cheek and left. As the door closed behind her, I gave a sigh of relief. I was just as glad that she was gone as she had been. I felt that I could endure quite a bit of noise and chaos these days, but even I had my limits.

Still, at least I was fair enough not to blame Antoinette alone for the tense atmosphere. If anything was to blame, it were her nerves, and even they would have been easier to bear for my girl if we had still been living with Meg. Antoinette was a child who needed a lot of free space to move, and she simply couldn't have enough of it in this house.

I knew it would all become better in spring, once we'd be able to use the garden, but that was little comfort to the girl now. No, it was not her fault that she had misbehaved. Yet neither was it her brother's fault. He had become her victim, simply because he had been there.

Quickly, I went to comfort him. I didn't have to wander through long corridors in order to do so. His room was right between his sister's and mine.

"Philippe?" I called softly as I reached the door. "Can I come in?"

"Is Antoinette with you?" my son asked, sounding both anxious and a little annoyed. He probably suspected that I was dragging her along to make her apologise.

"No, she has already gone to the opera," I replied, and Philippe opened the door.

He looked utterly miserable. Traces of tears still lined his face.

I felt a pang of guilt. I should have tried to protect him better from his sister's anger. In theory, it was all very well to say that I wanted to give the children more freedom, now that they were older, but it had been foolish to forget how sensitive my boy was.

"Are you feeling better?" I asked gently, handing him a handkerchief. "I'm sorry that I didn't help you more."

Philippe wiped his eyes, then attempted a brave smile.

"It's all right," he said. "Uncle Erik told me that I have to learn to defend myself. He said that the world is a cruel place, and people hurt each other all the time. If I can't live with it, I can as well give up right now."

I frowned. That did not sound like the Erik who had been my husband for a short time. It sounded much more like the Phantom, a bitter man who trusted no one and thought only the worst of his fellow men. Had he changed back into the man he had once been, or were those words merely something he had told Philippe without thinking about it?

I strongly suspected the former. Erik was not someone who said things without having thought about them. I found it quite alarming that he seemed to regain his mistrust in humanity, when I had so hoped he had overcome it. I also couldn't help wondering whether it had something to do with me. It was quite likely. After all, I was the most important person in –

I stopped myself, realising that I had slid back into thinking along the same lines I had once done. I no longer was the most important person in Erik's life, the one who influenced his decisions and opinions. I hadn't seen him in weeks.

If someone was influencing him, it had to be Marcella. I couldn't imagine what she was doing or why she'd want to influence him in such a negative way. I only knew it had to stop. I'd have to talk to Erik about it. Yet at the moment, it was far more important to try and change Philippe's opinion.

"Of course you have to learn to defend yourself," I told him with a kind smile. "With words, that is, not with actions. But you mustn't think that the world is a cruel place where everything people do is hurt each other. And even if they do so, it often happens without them meaning to do it. Most people are trying to be nice to each other. They just don't succeed all the time."

"But why does Uncle Erik say such things then?" Philippe asked, his eyes round.

I gave a little sigh, thinking longingly of the time when my son had been younger, when he had accepted everything I had said without questioning it. Yet that time was over, once and for all. Erik didn't approve of accepting anything without questioning it. It was a positive habit in itself, yet one that could become rather exhausting.

"Many bad things have happened in Uncle Erik's life," I replied heavily. "He has been hurt very often. It's only logical that his attitude towards life has become a little… negative. But you don't have to share his opinion on everything. Why don't you wait and see how people behave towards you before you judge them all as being evil?"

I smiled encouragingly.

Philippe nodded slowly, the expression on his face serious. I knew that in that very moment, he was starting to think about what I had said and formed his own opinion on the subject. He always did it like that. It was unusual and quite astounding, but I had grown used to it. I didn't know another eight-year-old child I could have spoken to like to an adult, but with Philippe, it was perfectly normal. He was an extraordinary boy.

Like so many times before in similar situations, I couldn't help pondering whether Philippe had always been like that. Had Erik simply recognised the potential in the boy and helped bring out the best in his character, or had he somehow shaped the child after himself, making him just as intelligent, pensive and suspicious? I didn't know the answer. Erik had such a huge influence on my son's life that it was impossible to tell how he'd have developed without him. It was just as pointless as wondering how Antoinette would have developed without her love for the ballet.

"I'll ask Uncle Erik when I see him," Philippe announced, once he seemed to have done enough thinking. "I'll ask him why his opinion on everyone is so negative and tell him to think about it."

The boy looked very pleased about the solution he had found, and I couldn't help smiling as well. This was one of the negative aspects of Erik's education. He had taught the boy to question everything and everyone, so he was questioning his teacher as well now. I rather liked the irony.

"Just don't talk to him tonight," I advised my son. "Uncle Erik will have his mind on… other things."

"Do you mean his new student, Marcella?" Philippe asked.

"Yes," I replied openly. I didn't want to lie to him anymore. My children deserved honest answers, after all the lies I had told them.

"Marcella is nice," Philippe stated. "She's so shy. When Uncle Erik takes me to greet her before we start our lessons, she hardly talks to me."

I was on the verge of saying that I wished that girl wouldn't talk to him at all, but I held myself back. I tried my best not to speak ill about her, for I was afraid Philippe could tell it to Erik, thus ruining all my chances. But then, there probably weren't any chances to be ruined…

"Let us go to the kitchen and have a cup of tea before we get changed for the performance," I suggested, eager to change the subject.

"Are there still any biscuits left?" Philippe wanted to know, sounding like every other eight-year-old child all of a sudden.

"Of course," I said, smiling.


	40. Chapter Forty

**Chapter Forty**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

After I had drunk tea with Philippe and Mme.Marandette, I left the boy downstairs with the old lady and went back to our rooms alone. There was something important I still had to do before I could even think of going to the performance: I had to choose the clothes I wanted to wear.

Of course I had already given the matter a great deal of thought over the last few days… or rather, weeks. At least a dozen pieces of clothing had been examined carefully, only to be discarded straight away. At last, I had decided for a combination of a white blouse with embroidery at sleeves and neckline and a black skirt.

Standing in my bedroom, however, I could only shake my head about the choice. When I had first made the decision, I had thought I looked simple, yet elegant. Now I couldn't see the elegant part anymore. Examining myself in the mirror, I couldn't help feeling that I resembled a chamber maid more than aynthing else. The people at the performance would assume I was there to clean the boxes or serve them drinks.

No, I couldn't leave the house like this. I'd only make a fool of myself. Unceremoniously, I took off the clothes again and put them back into the wardrobe. For a while, I simply stood there, gazing at its contents, trying to recall why I had chosen to be simple, yet elegant, in the first place. 

I came to the conclusion that whatever the reason had been, it had been foolish. After all, I knew the kind of women who were invited to such events. The patrons' wives would seize the chance to show their best clothes, and the mothers of the chorus girls would do their best to copy them. I couldn't be the only one to arrive at the opera in simple clothing.

I had brought quite a few clothes with me when we had moved in. Surprisingly enough, many of those Raoul had once bought me had survived the fire. They had been in a wardrobe on the first floor, which had barely been touched by the fire. Yet the truth was that even though I had brought them here, I was reluctant to wear them. They no longer smelled of smoke, of course, but the scent of far too many memories clung to them.

Yet the longer I gazed at the contents of my wardrobe, the more it became clear to me that I could only choose one of those dresses. I had bought quite a few clothes during my stay at Meg's house, but none of them was right for the occasion. They were exactly the kind of simple, sensible clothes I wanted to avoid.

Hesitantly, I ran my hand over the sleeve of an elegant red dress. True, it was beautiful. But would I dare wear something like that? It was not my body I was self-conscious about. The weight I had put on before Clarille's birth had long since disappeared again.

The problem with my old clothes was that most of them were very bright and colourful. They were the clothes of a confident woman who didn't mind everyone looking at her. However, I was no longer like that. The dresses seemed to belong to someone else, someone who had left for good. They didn't belong to me.

I was aware that no matter what I wore, I'd be the centre of attention. People would gossip about me, simply because I'd come to the performance alone, without a man at my side. I hadn't meant it to happen like that, but I had soon realised that the end of my stay with Meg had also meant the end of the pretense that everything was all right between Raoul and me. No one would have believed it anymore, now that the excuse of me having to care for my friend's children had gone.

I knew that Raoul no longer made excuses why I didn't accompany him to social events, but simply told the truth. I myself could only guess what snide remarks he had to endure, for I hadn't been anywhere near those circles of society in months. Today would be the first time that I'd meet many of my old acquaintances. It was not a prospect I relished. If I was lucky, people would at least wait till Philippe was out of earshot before starting to question me, but I couldn't rely on it. Some of them, especially the women, were very insensitive. They said what they wanted and didn't care who overheard them.

Of course, this made it even more important to choose the right dress. I didn't want to give anyone the chance to mock me for my clothes on top of everything else. Besides, I knew from experience that looking elegant would make it easier to simply smile serenely about snide remarks and walk away.

I took dress after dress out of my wardrobe, looked at it from all sides, then put it back. Some of them I had to try on, for I couldn't even remember what I looked like in them. It had been a long time since I had worn any of them. It felt strange to do it now. I didn't look like the Christine I had grown used to. I looked like the woman I had once been.

But maybe, I thought, in the middle of changing into yet another dress, that was not so bad after all. If there was anything I needed tonight, it was more self-confidence, and not only because I'd be facing some unfriendly or curious comments. Tonight would be the first time in years that I'd meet Erik and Raoul at the same time.

I had to stop getting dressed as a wave of conflicting emotions washed over me, making my hands tremble. I had no problems recognising the most powerful one as anxiety. I told myself that it was only natural to be a little afraid of meeting the two men after all the time I had avoided them. I had no idea how they expected me to behave, how they'd behave themselves, what we'd talk about. The only comfort I had was that Clarille, who'd spend the evening with Michel at Meg's house, under Marielle's watchful gaze, wouldn't be a topic. Talking to either man about her had been postponed.

A strange nagging feeling at the back of my mind reminded me that there was something I'd have to talk to them about, something I couldn't possibly avoid… Then it hit me, and I gasped for breath. Erik believed that Raoul and I had grown closer again, whereas Raoul believed the same to be true for Erik and me!

Unable to remain standing with my legs shaking as well as my hands, I sank to the floor in a heap of limbs and pale pink silk. How could I have been so foolish as to forget what I had told the men? Sure, I hadn't been forced to repeat the lie in the last weeks, but I couldn't expect that they had forgotten it. Tonight, each of them would wait for me to arrive in the other man's company, when in fact, they would probably both show up with the new woman at their side, and I'd be all alone.

My fear of snide remarks evaporated in the face of that new, all-consuming fear. What were a couple of stupid comments compared to seeing the look on Erik's and Raoul's faces when they'd realise I had lied to both of them? It was too terrifying, too embarrassing to contemplate.

But what could I do to avoid it? My first idea was not to attend the performance, but it would have been impossible to do so. Antoinette had been looking forward to this day for weeks. I couldn't spoil it for her by not showing up. She expected me to be there.

Maybe I'd be able to pretend that I was with Erik or Raoul, depending on who I talked to. Yet after just a few moments' thinking, I had to dismiss that idea as well. It would have been very foolish to hope that Erik's and Raoul's paths would never once cross that evening. After all, there wouldn't be as many people as at a real performance. They'd surely meet, and sadly, they didn't hate each other so much that they wouldn't talk to each other and discover that neither of them was actually with me.

This only left me with one option: the truth. On the first possible occasion, maybe even before the performance, I'd ask both of them for a word, search for a quiet corner, and tell them about my lie. I'd tell them that they were free to do whatever they wanted. Maybe, if I wouldn't be in tears by then, I'd even manage to wish them luck for their futures, their new lives. I wouldn't be easy, but I couldn't think of anything else to do.

With determined motions, I got up from the floor and pulled up the pale pink dress, suddenly not caring at all what I was wearing. Compared to what I'd have to face tonight, the choice of dress was very unimportant. 


	41. Chapter FortyOne

**Chapter Forty-One**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

Once I had fetched a few dresses for Marcella to choose from, and she and I had agreed on which one she'd wear, I had to leave her behind in her room again and go to work. Despite the fact that it was not a real performance that would take place tonight, there was a lot to do for the Opera Ghost.

Ever since I had returned, I had started taking my duties very seriously again. So many things had been neglected during my absence, so many bad habits had developed. Of course, I didn't blame my boy. I knew that a child couldn't be expected to do an adult's work, especially if the adult usually doing the work was me. Philippe had done more than enough. He had performed his tasks admirably, and I hadn't failed to tell him so. I was very proud of him.

Still, there were things he couldn't have done, things that required the real Opera Ghost, not his heir. I didn't doubt that he'd be able to do those things one day, but at the moment, he was simply too young.

One of the tasks that had clearly been too much for him was keeping up with the gossip. I despised gossip as a rule, but I couldn't deny that it was useful, even though I didn't believe half of what I heard. Believing too much would have been very foolish, especially if the people gossiping were the chorus girls. Some of them seemed to have a very vague idea of what was the truth.

Today, I wanted to seize the chance to find out whether there already were rumours about Marcella. It was possible, even though she didn't take part in any of the chorus girls' activities yet. I gave her voice lessons myself, of course, and I was thinking of asking Mme.Giry to give her private ballet lessons. I was aware that she'd never be able to catch up with the chorus girls, who had started learning at such an early age, but I hoped that dancing would give her more self-confidence, on stage as well as in general.

Still, I was almost certain that there were rumours about her. After all, she had been seen in my presence several times. When I was not busy teaching her or my little Philippe, I sometimes took her to the park or a café. I knew that in order to be happy, she needed fresh air and sunlight, and I didn't find it necessary to lead her through secret passageways like a thief, now that the managers and everyone else knew about her.

For the chorus girls' sake, I could only hope the rumours were of the friendly kind. If they were not… Well, I had my methods of making sure they wouldn't spread. I'd never let Marcella hear anything unfriendly about herself. The girl didn't have a lot of self-confidence as it was.

Overhearing gossip wasn't difficult on a day when a performance would take place. The excitement made the girls chatter even more loudly than usual, and for reasons I had never been able to understand, they seemed to regard the exchange of rumours as an excellent cure of nerves.

I positioned myself in a dark corner of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms and waited. Barely ten minutes later, I heard the first "Did you know?", followed by so much breathless giggling that my ears rang. Two chorus girls hurried down the corridor and into a room, not bothering to close the door behind themselves. I could easily hear their high-pitched voices.

"Guess what we've just heard: Marie was late for practice _again_!" one of them said excitedly. "And Mme.Giry told her she'd forbid her to go out in the evening if that was what came from it."

"But she can't forbid her to go out, Nella," another girl argued. "Or can she?"

"Let me tell you one thing, Sara: Mme.Giry can do anything she pleases," a third girl said, sounding almost awed.

I smiled to myself, secretly agreeing with the latter opinion. Of course Mme.Giry couldn't forbid the girls to go out in the evenings, as long as there were no performances. However, she had every right to take away certain privileges and could even exclude girls from performances if she felt that they didn't show the right attitude towards dancing. I had seen her do so more than once.

Yet while it was comforting to know that the ballet mistress still had authority over the chorus girls, such news were not what I had come for. Still, since I could hardly tell the girls to change the subject, I had to endure at least a quarter of an hour's worthless gossip before they finally started talking about something else.

"Only yesterday, I've seen that new girl again," the girl called Nella said. "What's her name… Mariella?"

"Marcella," Sara corrected her. "Yes, I've seen her as well. I was just coming from the stage, and there she was. And guess who she was accompanied by…"

"The Opera Ghost," the third girl replied instantly. "That's hardly a revelation. She's always accompanied by him. I've never seen her as much as walking down a corridor on her own. I'd like to know why he never leaves her alone."

"Perhaps there is something wrong with her," Sara mused aloud. "Just like in the story my grandmother always used to tell. There was a beautiful girl who was never seen alone, but always in the company of an old man. Then it turned out that she wasn't a girl at all, but a spirit, and the old man was there to hold her back, so she wouldn't attack the living!"

A moment's silence followed that extraordinary statement. Then the other girls burst into laughter.

"You and your stories!" the third girl exclaimed, gasping for breath. "Do you really think Marcella is a spirit? Well, I don't. She's just a normal girl. I for one haven't seen her walk through walls, float in the air or anything of that nature. I think she only wants the Opera Ghost at her side because she's shy and doesn't know anyone but him. When I first came to the opera last year, I was very shy. I'd have been glad about someone to hold my hand. I barely dared open my mouth."

"I never had such problems, Leila," Nella said loftily.

"True," Sara agreed dryly. "Your only problem is to keep your mouth shut every now and then."

The girls giggled again. The sound was very tiresome, but I didn't want to leave, not now that the conversation finally had the right subject.

Once the girls had calmed down again, Leila spoke again, in a serious voice.

"She looks rather nice, doesn't she?" she mused. "It can't be easy for her, coming to a foreign country where she doesn't know anyone except the Opera Ghost. Perhaps we should invite her to our café the next time we go there. Mme.Giry also said we have to be friendly to her when she told us who she was, remember?"

"She looks nice, yes," Nella agreed. "But you mustn't forget who she's friends with – the Opera Ghost! Maybe she wouldn't even want to go with us, not given the company she usually has. And just imagine if we offended her in one way or another, and she told _him_ about it…" Her voice shook slightly as she uttered the last words, apparently too afraid to finish her sentence.

"I wonder why the Opera Ghost has brought her here at all," Sara said pensively. "We haven't heard her sing, but even is she's as good as Mme.Giry hinted at… No one brings a girl all the way from Italy, just to teach her how to sing. There has to be something else."

"Do you mean he wants to…?"

The rest of Nella's question was drowned by fresh fits of giggles. Quietly, I slipped out of the corner and made my way back to Marcella. I had heard enough. Two things were clear to me now. The first one was that the girls seemed to like Marcella, but didn't dare approach her because of me. It was a small problem, but not one that couldn't be solved. My wish for the girl to have friends was far bigger then the need to protect her at all times.

Moreover, rumours about her and me had already started to spread over the opera. I had to do something about it, and it had to happen fast. I knew that if the chorus girls were gossiping about it, everyone else did it as well. This made the prospect of going to the performance tonight decidedly less inviting. I was sure that I'd hear even more gossip there. If I was seen with Marcella, everybody would assume that there was something going on between us, and I didn't want that to happen… or did I?


	42. Chapter FortyTwo

**Chapter Forty-Two**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

Even if I had wanted to break my promise to take Cecile to the performance, I wouldn't have been able to do so. I didn't see her again until the evening, due to the fact that I spent most of the day with my business partner, talking about our new projects.

I wasn't very good company that day. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't focus on the subject of operas and theatres. My thoughts kept wandering to the evening and what might happen then. I didn't know whether anything would happen between Cecile and me. I didn't even know whether I wanted anything to happen.

By the time I had to leave, I had the distinct impression that my business partner wasn't sorry to say goodbye. He was a very patient man, a fact that made him a good husband and father, but even he had his limits, and I knew that I had overstepped them more than once on this day. After all, I had barely taken in a word of what he had said, and I had not been able to hide it very well. All I could do now was give him an apologetic smile as I left, making the silent promise to be more attentive the next time we'd meet.

When I arrived at my house, there was little time left till Cecile and I would have to go out again. Jacques brought me something to eat into the bathroom, and I ate hastily, knowing from experience that there were few things more tiresome than having to endure a boring performance on an empty stomach.

Not that I necessarily expected the peformance to be boring. Frankly, I didn't have many expectations at all. I knew what an opera was like, of course, but I had never attended this kind of performance before. All I knew for certain was that there would be no singing, only dancing and music. I liked dancing, and even if I hadn't like it, I'd have still gone to the opera tonight. It would be the first time that my daughter would be on stage, and I wouldn't have missed it for anything.

It was a strange and slightly disturbing thought, my little Antoinette, on stage with all the older girls. I knew that some of them weren't that much older than she was. She even had friends among them. And yet… she was still my little girl. In my mind, I could see her twirl around in the corridors of our old house, demanding applause for every step she took. It had been good times.

Absent-mindedly, I put the washcloth into the washbasin and brought it to my chest. With a startled gasp, I realised that the water was stone-cold. I had no idea how long I had been standing there, thinking, but it had definitely been too long. I washed myself briskly, still shivering, then gave my body a quick rub with the towel and got dressed in a plain black suit.

Glancing at my reflection in the mirror over the washbasin, I couldn't help thinking that I looked rather good. True, I was not as young as I had once been, but that wasn't necessarily a disadvantage. I looked exactly like a gentleman in certain circles of society was supposed to look. Cecile didn't seem to mind the difference between our ages either. On the contrary, the furtive glances she threw me told me that my appearance pleased her.

Thinking about appearances made me notice how odd it was that no one had knocked at the door during my time in the bathroom. Surely Cecile needed to use it, too, didn't she? The guest room she was living in wasn't even equipped with a mirror.

I left the bathroom quickly, feeling a slight twinge of guilt join the food in the pit of my stomach. What if I had kept Cecile from starting with the important preparations every woman had to take before leaving the house for such an occasion? Had she perhaps stood in the corridor, not daring to interrupt me? Had I made her angry before the night had even begun?

"Jacques!" I called as I saw the butler coming out of a room at the end of the corridor. I hurried towards him. "Where is Cecile?"

"She is in the bathroom, M. le Comte," he replied. "But I can assure you that she will be with you shortly. You will be able to leave on time."

"But… she can't be in the bathroom," I muttered, puzzled. "I've only left it a minute ago. I'd have seen her."

The old man looked at me with something like pity.

"I meant the bathroom downstairs, M. le Come," he explained slowly. "The small one next to the kitchen. I told Cecile that you'd need the big bathroom once you returned from work, and I asvised her to use the other one. She has been in there for quite a while, but she'll be ready soon."

I blushed slightly and hastened to nod. I didn't want to admit to Jacques that I had completely forgotten the second bathroom, a small room I had hardly ever entered myself.

"Well, tell her that I am ready to leave," I said. "If she is ready as well, that is…"

"She wouldn't want to let you wait, M. le Comte," Jacques assured me, turning around.

Moments later, I heard the sound of footsteps and his cane on the stairs. I went into my bedroom to fetch a little money and my pocket-watch, then I made my way downstairs as well.

On the last step, I stopped dead, for I was met with such radiant beauty that my heart skipped a beat. There, right next to the entrance door, stood Cecile. She was wearing a dress in a dark, vivid green. Having grown up with two older sisters, I could tell that the dress had not been as expensive as it looked at first sight, but it fitted her eyes and her complexion perfectly. Her hair, as I could see when she moved her head to talk to her uncle, was tied back with a bow the exact colour of the dress.

Jacques turned towards me when he heard me on the stairs. His eyes were full of pride.

"There you are, M. le Comte," he said. "Look at our Cecile. Isn't she beautiful? I can scarcely believe what a fine young woman she has grown into."

He looked at me expectantly, eager for me to agree. Cecile looked at me, too.

"Does my appearance please you, M. le Comte?" she asked shyly.

I could tell that she was anxious to hear my reply, not merely keen to get as many compliments as possible, like so many other women. It made me all the more eager to say something nice about her.

"Yes, it does," I answered. "Very much. You look… you look beautiful, Cecile."

"Oh, thank you," she said, her usually so pale cheeks flushing.

I offered her my arm to lead her outside, and she seized it without hesitation.

Jacques opened the door for us.

"This is a happy day for me," he announced solemnly. "My little Cecile and the young Comte… A very happy day indeed."

If it had been someone else making such a comment, I'd have been quick to find a retort. I'd have told them that Cecile was merely accompanying me to the performance, that it didn't mean anything and that my heart still belonged to Christine.

However, this was not someone else. It was Jacques, who had seen me grow up, who had been with me for such a long time. True, he had never liked Christine and was therefore much more pleased to know me with his niece. Yet I didn't find it in myself to blame him for that sentiment. He was just an old man who was happy about what he saw.

As we passed the threshold, I looked back at him and had to revise my judgement. He was old, yes, but the joy he felt was almost palpable around him, making him appear much younger.

"Don't you want to come with us?" I asked, acting on a sudden whim. "There would be plenty of space for you in our box."

Jacques smiled, but shook his head.

"It is very nice of you to ask, M. le Comte," he said. "But I am too old for that kind of amusement. No, no, I'll have a nice, quiet evening with a book and a cup of tea. I'll be with you in thought."

After we had said our farewells, Cecile and I walked out into the street, where the coach was already waiting, and got inside. I knew that Jacques was watching us, and it made me smile. It was good to see the him happy.

I exchanged a few words with the coachman, who fortunately didn't seem to be drunk yet, and we were off. As I looked back, Jacques was still standing at the door. We turned a corner, and he was gone.


	43. Chapter FortyThree

**Chapter Forty-Three**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

The coach brought us to the opera right after I had left Clarille with Marielle and Michel. Jacqueline had wanted to stay behind and help, too, but I had given her the evening off. Marielle was perfectly capable of looking after two children on her own, and I knew that Jacqueline would enjoy spending time with Gabriel. The two had grown so close over the last years that they were virtually inseparable.

Philippe and I were not alone in the coach. We were accompanied by Meg and Jean. It was fortunate that they were going to the performance, too, for it meant that we could use their coach. The coachman was none other than Gabriel, and Jacqueline was sitting next to him. They'd be free to do whatever they pleased once he had brought us to the opera. There would be plenty of time for them till he'd have to fetch us again.

Jean and Philippe were talking in animated voices, but I didn't bother to follow their conversation properly or even join in. I merely sat there, staring out of the window, wishing that I wouldn't have to go to the opera. Of course, it wasn't the opera itself that worried me. I'd have been happy to go there… if it hadn't meant meeting Erik and Raoul.

A gentle nudge in the ribs made me jump and turn around. Meg was watching me with concern in her eyes.

"Christine?" she murmured softly, so that Philippe and Jean, who were sitting in the front bench, wouldn't hear her. "Is something wrong? You look sad…"

I gave a helpless little shrug. It was not as if I didn't want to talk about it, but I didn't know how to put it all into words… or even where to start. My thoughts were a big chaos.

"Is it because of Erik and Raoul?" Meg asked when I didn't reply.

I stared at her incredulously.

"How… how did you know that?" I blurted out.

Meg smiled, evidently pleased with herself.

"I'm your best friend," she said, as if that explained everything. "I can tell that you're worried about going to the opera. Every time the coach stops, you look as if you wanted to jump out and run away. What reason could there be, other than the two men? You haven't seen them in weeks, and now you don't know what they're going to say."

"It's even worse than that," I muttered. Then I told her about m resolution to reveal the truth about my supposed relastionship to both men tonight. "So, what do you think?" I eventually asked.

Meg gave my hand a light squeeze.

"I think that I'm proud of you," she replied. "You'll tell them the truth at last. That's wonderful."

"Yes, but what will they do when they hear it?" I asked anxiously. "Won't they be very angry at me?"

Meg was silent for a moment as she considered my question.

"I don't know," she finally answered. "It is possible that they'll be angry because you lied to them. But on the other hand, it's not as big a lie as…" She threw my belly a significant glance.

I blushed slightly and folded my hands in my lap. Of course she was right. Lying to Erik and Raoul about my relationships hadn't nearly been as serious as not telling them that one of them was the father of my daughter.

"I know," I muttered. "I know…"

"Well," Meg went on. "At least it shouldn't be too difficult for you to find a moment to talk to them. There'll be plenty of opportunities, both before and after the performance. Jean and I will look after Philippe if you want us to."

"That would be very nice," I said.

I hadn't even thought about what to do with my son, and I was glad that for once, a solution had presented itself before I had even realised there might be a problem.

"Do you already know what you want to say?" my friend asked curiously.

I shook my head.

"Not really," I admitted. "It's difficult. I don't want to offend or infuriate them."

"They won't be furious," she assured me. "A little angry, maybe, but not furious."

"I feel such a fool," I whispered, staring down at my hands. "They both have new women in their lives – Erik that Marcella and Raoul the niece of Jacques'. It'll make me look so pathetic, as if I had to cling to them because I'm the only one who can't find anyone else."

"Christine," Meg said firmly. "Look at me."

Slowly, I did what she told me.

"You are an intelligent and beautiful woman," she told me, looking into my eyes. "There are many men who are only waiting for the chance to get to know you better. Any signal from you, and they'll be there, flowers in their hands, waiting for you. They'll queue outside your door, and your Mme.Marandette will have to offer them drinks and chairs to sit down on."

I knew she was exaggerating, but it had the intended effect: I was smiling again.

"Well, I doubt that will happen anytime soon," I said. "Though it would be nice…" My voice trailed off.

Meg laughed.

"You'll find someone, I know it," she assured me. "And once you've told Erik and Raoul the truth, it'll be even easier. You'll be a free woman. I'm sure that the moment the word is out that you no longer have a man at your side, you'll receive the first offers."

"But they already know," I pointed out. "As far as I can tell, it is common knowledge that Raoul and I aren't living together anymore. And I haven't received any offers or – "

"That's just because you don't _behave_ like a free woman," Meg interrupted me. "You should go out more often. Jean and I could accompany you if you don't want to go alone. Come to think of it, there are a couple of very nice men among Jean's acquaintances. Maybe you'd like me to – "

"No!" Now I was the one interrupting her. "It's very friendly of you, but… no."

I didn't like the idea of Meg and Jean talking to other people about my situation, trying to persuade men to show interest in me. It made me feel even more pathetic than I already did.

"I understand," my friend said gently. "You still love them, don't you? Or at least one of them."

"I don't know," I murmured. "I don't want to think about it. And anyway," I went on in a very cheerful voice. "It doesn't matter. They both have someone else now. They don't care about my feelings anymore, no matter what those feelings are."

"That's not true, and you know it," Meg said. "Of course they care about you. Very much."

To my horror, I felt my eyes well up with tears. I tried to blink them away.

"Then why do they have those other girls?" I asked in a choked whisper. "If they cared about me, they wouldn't need someone else."

Meg straightened up in her seat, looking highly uncomfortable all of a sudden.

"I can't blame them," she finally admitted. "Christine, you're my friend, but I have to tell you this: You have not treated those men well. You lied to them, and you deceived them. I do think they loved you, but it was too much for them. So when the opportunity presented itself, they seized it. It's what most people would have done in their situation. You couldn't expect them to wait forever for you to make up your mind."

I stared at her, unable to comprehend what she had just said. Meg was my best friend. She was supposed to support me, not enumerate every single thing I had ever done wrong in my life! I turned away from her and continued looking out of the window.

"Why are you talking to me at all if I'm such a terrible person?" I asked bitterly. "Why are you being all friendly, only to stab me in the back? I thought you were my friend."

"I am your friend," Meg said quietly. "But as my friend, it is my duty to tell you the truth, even if you don't like it. I know I'm right, and you know it as well. Just think about it…"

Before I could do as much as think about whether I wanted to give an answer, the coach came to a halt.

"The opera," Gabriel announced.

"Think about it later," Meg repeated as we got out.

Wordlessly, I took Philippe by the hand, glad to get away from my so-called friend and her accusations.

"Look!" he called. "There's Uncle Erik's friend Marcella."

And sure enough, Marcella was standing at the top of the stairs, wearing a pale pink silk dress. I gaped at her. The dress was an exact replica of the one I was wearing.


	44. Chapter FortyFour

**Chapter Forty-Four**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

My first impulse was to turn around and run away in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, such a behaviour was impossible for several reasons. First of all, Philippe was still holding my hand, and he didn't look as if he'd let go of it. Moreover, there were other people streaming towards the opera. I couldn't let them see me run away like a little child. I had to face it. I had to face _her_.

Marcella had spotted us as well. She gave us a shy smile as we approached her. I would have liked nothing better than to walk past her without a word, but she was standing right next to the entrance door, blocking the path as she stepped forward. Before I could think about how to avoid her in a polite manner, she had already addressed us.

"Philippe," she said, looking at my son. Then her gaze travelled upwards, and her eyes met mine. Her smile faltered as she saw the stony expression on my face. I felt a grim sense of satisfaction.

"You must be Mme. de Chagny," she went on uncertainly. "It is… nice to meet you."

"Good evening," Philippe greeted her politely.

"Good evening," I echoed stiffly, though I didn't feel like wishing that person a good evening.

I wondered whether she had already noticed that our dresses were alike. Given the fact that her gaze was still fixed on my face, I doubted it. Why was she here at all? Had she been waiting for someone? Had she been waiting for _us_? And where was Erik?

As if she had read my mind, Marcella told us,

"Signor Erik wanted to meet you here, but he had to go somewhere. I don't know where. So he asked me to wait here and… talk to you. He will be back soon."

She stopped talking, looking rather exhausted. I had the vague impression that uttering her thoughts in French still wasn't easy for her, but I didn't really care. I might have been more sympathetic if she had worn a different dress and hadn't been here with Erik.

"Why did Erik want to meet us?" I asked. I couldn't remember anything like it. Surely Philippe would have mentioned it.

"He wanted to ask you qualcosa… something," she replied.

She paused, giving my mind the chance to come up with its own suggestions, one more unlikely than the last. There were so many things he could want to ask me, so many exciting new possibilities…

But then the girl seemed to recall what she wanted to say, and my hopes were crushed.

"He wants to know where you'll sit," she continued. "You could sit with us in his.. in…"

She gave us an apologetic smile as she struggled to find the right expression. I was almost certain that I knew what she wanted to say, but I didn't feel the need to help her.

"Box Five," Philippe assisted. I almost regretted having raised him to be polite and helpful. "Can we go and sit there, Maman? It would be so nice there. I haven't been to Box Five for such a long time. And we'd have a good view on the stage."

I waited with the reply for a few moments, pretending to watch an elderly couple walking up the stairs while I was thinking hard. Sitting in Box Five would mean meeting Erik, without any effort for me. However, and this was a great disadvantage, it would also mean meeting Erik in Marcella's presence. I could not possibly start a conversation about my lies right under her nose. It would have been far too embarrassing.

"I'm sorry, Philippe," I told my son. "But we've promised Meg and Jean to sit with them. We cannot decide to sit somewhere else all of a sudden."

"Oh… all right," he muttered, looking mildly disappointed.

I turned to Marcella.

"Tell Erik that we appreciate his generous offer," I said. "Unfortunately, we've already made other arrangements. Maybe we'll see him… and you… later."

For a moment, I thought about telling her that I wanted to meet Erik later, but I dismissed the idea almost immediately. Who knew how much of it she'd actually understand and pass on? Besides, surely Meg was right: There'd be many opportunities to meet Erik without planning for it to happen.

Having said what I wanted to, I gave Philippe's hand a light squeeze.

"We've got to go," I told him. "Meg and Jean are waiting. They've surely gone inside by now."

Philippe nodded. We bade goodbye to Marcella, who once more looked rather lost, and made our way into the entrance hall. Even though no real performance would take place, the room was rather crowded, and I could not spot Meg and Jean at first glance.

"Christine? Christine!"

I sent a silent prayer to the heavens. It could not be possible. Not now. Not right after my encounter with Marcella. Yet at the same time, I knew it was too late for prayers. I'd have recognised the voice anywhere.

Raoul was striding towards me, looking as tall and handsome as ever. My heart missed a beat. Sternly, I told myself not to be ridiculous. Raoul was not alone. The pretty young woman I had seen on his doorstep was walking next to him. For a second, I had the disturbing vision that she was wearing my pale pink dress as well, but most fortunately, it turned out not to be true. Still, she looked very beautiful in her green dress. I felt shabbier by the minute.

"Papa!" Philippe cried, leaving my side to greet his father.

Watching them brought an involuntary smile to my lips. They were so sweet together. Raoul truly was the best father imaginable.

Over the top of our son's head, Raoul's eyes met mine. He gave an uncertain smile.

"Christine," he breathed.

For a moment, there seemed to be just the two of us. No one else mattered. Just him and me, for all… A man knocked into me on his way inside, and the spell was broken.

"This is Cecile," Raoul said. His voice was perfectly friendly, but I missed the warmth I had heard before. "I don't believe you have met her yet… at least not properly. She is Jacques' niece."

Cecile beamed at us. If Raoul hadn't just said so, I'd have never believed her to be the niece of quiet, grumpy Jacques. I also didn't fail to notice the difference to Marcella. If Cecile was insecure about being among all those people or about being introduced to me, she did not show it. She looked so confident that one might have thought she was doing this every day.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mme. de Chagny," she greeted me warmly.

"The pleasure is mine," I gave back, not meaning it.

I couldn't believe this was happening. Why did I have to meet both of those girls within minutes of each other? I felt as if I had ended up in the kind of book I rarely read because the things that happened there never happened in real life.

"I was hoping I'd meet you before the performance," Raoul said. He seemed perfectly cheerful as he looked at us. Did he really believe that we were getting along well, or was he just pretending? "I wanted to ask you whether you'd like to sit with us. I'm sure Antoinette would like to see her parents together."

It was a tempting offer, much more tempting than Marcella's. But then, our daughter wouldn't be able to see anyone in the audience, due to the fact that the lights would be too bright. Raoul must have forgotten about it.

"No, thank you," I replied. "We've promised Meg and Jean to sit with them. Ah, there they are."

As if they had sensed that I needed them, Meg and Jean chose exactly this moment to appear.

"Raoul," Meg exclaimed brightly, giving Cecile a brief glance. "How nice it is to see you. We have to talk later. But we should go and take our seats now, Christine. We don't want to be late, do we?"

"Of course not," I replied readily. "We'll see each other later, Raoul… Cecile…"

The moment we had left the entrance hall, I hissed,

"Where have you been? I'd have needed you much sooner. There was that Marcella, and she – "

"She is wearing the same dress you do," Meg finished for me. "That was why we left. Here, take this."

She handed me a large piece of pearly grey fabric. I unrolled it and realised it was a beautiful scarf, decorated with dozens of tiny beads that shone in the light.

"We got it from the costume chamber," Meg explained excitedly. "We would have fetched you a completely new dress, but there is no time for you to change. So this will have to do. It's not much, but maybe it'll keep everyone from noticing that Marcella is wearing an identical dress. They'll just think it's a similar one."

She helped me drape the scarf around my shoulders. It really didn't alter my appearance all that much. And still, I smiled happily. It was a reminder that no matter what the men in my life did, I had a friend I could count on.


	45. Chapter FortyFive

**Chapter Forty-Five**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

In all my years at the opera, I had rarely sat through a longer and more boring performance. I had no idea how often I pulled my pocket-watch out of my waistcoat and looked at it longingly. Why couldn't time move faster instead of more and more slowly?

But then, I was pefectly aware that even if the performance had been the most interesting I had ever seen, I would not have been much more attentive. Too much had happened before it had even begun. How was I supposed to keep my mind on the dancers if Christine kept appearing in my head?

If only I hadn't left my position at the entrance door! Everything had been planned so well. I was sure that if I had asked Christine whether she wanted to sit with us, she'd have at least considered it. I'd have liked nothing better than to have both her and Philippe and Marcella around me. Apart from everything else, it would have been a chance for a useful lesson for my two pupils.

But no! Hearing about a crisis among the ballet girls, I had left immediately, certain that I'd be back in a couple of minutes. By the time I had returned, however, Christine had already refused the offer and walked away. It didn't help matters that the supposed crisis had been nothing but a few chorus girls with stage fright.

I had barely been able to keep myself from taking my anger out on poor Marcella by yelling at her. But then, I was intelligent enough to know that it had not been her fault. I should have known that her presence would make Christine want to run away, rather than encourage her to sit with us.

Still, Marcella knew I wasn't content with her. Sometimes, when she thought I wouldn't notice, she threw me anxious little sideways glances. A permanent frown lay on her pretty face. The moment I saw it, I felt guilty. It was only my fault that she was not enjoying the performance she had so been looking forward to. To me, who had seen many such events, it hardly mattered whether I was inattentive once or twice, but to her, it was something special and new, and I had spoilt it for her.

Without thinking about what was the best thing to do, I reached over and seized her hand. It felt small in mine, almost as small as Philippe's, and it was pleasantly warm. I could feel it even through the material of my gloves.

Marcella looked at me, beaming. The frown had vanished. There was no need for me to ask whether she had understood what I wanted to tell her. I didn't have to speak at all. I merely returned the smile for a moment, then looked back at the stage.

Her hand remained in mine for the rest of the performance. At first, I had thought I'd only give her an encouraging little squeeze, then let go again. However, she seemed to enjoy it far too much for me to make it stop. And truth to be told, I was enjoying it as well.

I had no held anyone's hand on years, apart from Philippe's, and that was different. The boy was still a child, and my godson. Though she was quite young, too, there was no mistaking Marcella for a child. I hadn't failed to notice that she already had a rather womanly body. Her mind, however, still seemed to be that of a girl, no doubt due to her sheltered upbringing. Her fear of ghosts and spirits was a very good example for it.

This knowledge made me feel even worse about the thoughts I secretly entertained, in the long hours sat at her bed, watching over her sleep. And now that I was holding her hand, a wonderful daydream developed in front of my mind's eye, like a colourful cloud… almost as real as the things happening on the stage…

_Marcella was looking at me with those beautiful dark eyes, smiling brightly. _

"_I've never met a man like you, Erik," she said. "You're wonderful."_

"_So are you," I gave back gently. "I always knew it would come to this, right from the moment I first saw you."_

"_It would come to what?" Marcella asked._

_Instead of giving a verbal reply, I leaned over, cupped her face gently and brought my lips to hers. For a moment, her eyes grew wide in surprise, but then she returned the kiss lovingly. Pulled her over to sit on my lap, breaking the kiss only for a few seconds. I wrapped my arms around her, never –_

Applause sounded from all around me. I jerked up from my thoughts. Were people applauding our kiss? But no, that had been just a daydream. They were applauding because of what they saw on the stage. Quickly, I joined in, letting go of Marcella's hand reluctantly.

Looking down at the stage, I saw that the ballet girls were curtseying, a happy smile on their sweaty faces. It was over. I couldn't believe that I had missed the entire last part of the performance. But then, judging by what I had seen before, the performance in my head had probably been better.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" I asked Marcella as the applause had died down and it was quiet enough to talk.

"Oh yes, Signor Erik," she replied breathlessly, her cheeks rosy.

I wondered whether only the excitement of the performance was to blame for her state. Perhaps she had enjoyed holding my hand… well, not as much as I had done, but at least a little.

Down in the auditorium, people started to get up from their seats. The level of noise grew as everyone began to exchange their opinions on the performance.

"Shall we go as well?" I wanted to know. "There'll be a little celebration."

The tradition of the celebration was even newer than such performances themselves. It had begun when the mothers of hopeful little dancers had realised that no matter how hard they tried, the short time between the end of the performance and the time when the coaches arrived was never enough to hear the opinion of all patrons on their daughters and their talent.

Eager to hear as much praise as possible, they had thought of doing a celebration after the performance, in order to give everyone the chance to talk. I knew for a fact that the patrons only went there to enjoy a drink, whereas the ladies seized the chance to compare their dresses. Still, it was always worth a visit. I'd be able to show Marcella some important men.

To my surprise, the girl shook her head.

"I don't… I don't want to go, Signor Erik," she told me softly.

"But why not?" I asked blankly. "You'll see some very interesting people. Maybe you'll also be able to talk to few dancers. You could make new friends. Wouldn't you like that?"

After the conversation I had overheard earlier that day, I had made the resolution to give Marcella more freedom, no matter how hard it would be for me. After all, I wanted her to make friends, and this would be an excellent opportunity to meet the ballet girls, who'd be in a very good mood after the successful performance.

However, Marcella shook her head again, looking highly uncomfortable.

"I don't want to go," she repeated. "Please, Signor Erik… Can't I just go to my dressing room?"

Looking down at her flushed cheeks, I understood.

"Are you still worried about your dress?" I wanted to know gently. "It looks beautiful. You'll be just like all the other women."

For some reason, that comment seemed to disturb rather than reassure her.

"Signor Erik…" she whispered. "This dress… Mme. de Chagny… She is wearing the same dress!"

My jaw dropped. Whatever I had expected, it was not this.


	46. Chapter FortySix

**Chapter Forty-Six**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

The moment the performance was over and I felt that I had applauded enough, I jumped up from my seat. I was full of a nervous energy. While the dancing had lasted, I had been able to focus exclusively on it. It had been a relief to think of nothing else but music and the various combination of steps I had seen. Antoinette had been brilliant. I had rarely been so proud of anyone in my life.

Now that there was nothing to distract me anymore, however, I was feeling increasingly tense. I could barely stand still while I was waiting for Meg and Jean to stand up as well, so we'd be able to leave. Philippe was already at my side, peering down into the auditorium. I was aware that he was probably looking for Erik, seeing that we had missed him before, but the chances of spotting him were remote. Box Five was on the same side of the auditorium as the box that belonged to Meg and Jean.

I was very glad that I had not seen Erik during the performance. It would have been much too distracting from the dancing. Besides, I didn't want to see him with Marcella, talking to her, maybe even kissing her or holding her hand.

However, I knew that I'd see them together sooner or later anyway. They'd surely be at the celebration that would take place after the performance. I didn't feel like celebrating at all, but I knew I'd have to go there, or I wouldn't meet Erik and Raoul.

"Shall we go then?" I asked, trying my best to sound cheerful, mainly for Philippe's benefit.

"Of course," Meg replied, throwing me a sideways glance.

I was sure that she knew I was only pretending to be cheerful, but as long as she went along with it, it made no difference to me. I wondered whether she had told Jean about what I had planned to do. He was smiling at me, just like he always did, and I decided that even if he knew, I had no reason to be ashamed. Jean was not a person who'd hold anything against me.

We made our way to the entrance hall, where the celebration would take place. Naturally, we were talking about the performance. Both Meg and Jean were very impressed with Antoinette. Jean told us he had found his second favourite dancer, right after his wife. Philippe seemed to have enjoyed himself as well. He made some truly insightful comments on dancing, which would have sounded very peculiar for any eight-year-old boy who didn't happen to have Erik as his teacher.

On our way to the entrance hall, we met Antoinette. She was accompanied by Mme.Giry, who had promised to take her to the celebration, as I didn't want the girl to wander around in the opera alone with so many people there. Antoinette was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, apparently much too exicted to walk normally.

Looking into her happy face, I forgot all my own problems. Nothing was more important than my daughter.

"You were wonderful," I exclaimed, wrapping my arms around her. "I am so proud of you."

Antoinette returned the embrace for a few moments, then she let go of me and turned to face the others. I could understand her. She wanted to hear praise from people who were not her mother.

"Yes, you were wonderful," Meg assured her. "I've rarely seen such a talented little dancer. Wasn't she wonderful, Maman?"

Mme.Giry cleared her throat. For a moment, I was afraid that she'd make one of the dry, sarcastic comments that the chorus girls feared so much. Or that she'd tell my daughter that while she had done all right, she'd still have to work hard on the sideways motions of her legs, and her hands could be a little more outstretched.

But then she smiled gently, and I knew it would be all right.

"She was very good," she said. "Very good indeed. You have every right to be proud of her, Christine."

We exchanged a few more comments about Antoinette, who seemed to grow an inch with every one she heard, then we decided to go on to the celebration. My daughter would have liked to stand there longer and talk more and more about herself, but when I told her that the other girls would all be at the celebration, she agreed to go there, too.

As we continued walking, I asked Jean for the time. Hearing how late it already was, I let out a soft sigh. There wasn't much time left. I knew I wouldn't be able to stay long at the celebration before the children would grow tired and demand to be taken home. But then, maybe I wouldn't need that much time. How long could it take to tell the men about my lies? Surely no longer than a few minutes. And it would probably be better not to stay afterwards, but to go home straight away.

By the time we reached the hall, it was full of people. I couldn't see Erik or Raoul anywhere, but that was hardly surprising. I'd have to search for them.

"Who are you looking for, Maman?" Philippe asked moments later. He had obviously noticed that I was craning my neck for a better overview.

"Uncle Erik and your father," I replied.

I had only just remembered that my son would want to see them, too. I decided to make them join us, then ask them for a word alone later. Hopefully, it was a solution that would make everyone content.

"Good evening, Christine."

I jumped. It was one of those moments in which I fully believed that everyone thought Erik to be a ghost. What other explanation was there for his sudden appearance, when I had failed to spot him anywhere? I supposed it was just one of his talents.

The consequences of his appearance on me, however, were serious. Erik was standing just a few steps away from me. He had not been this close to me in quite a while. And his voice… Oh, how could I have forgotten how soft it was, how gentle? It was like a caress on my skin.

But when I looked at him more closely, I saw that he was not alone. Of course he wasn't. Marcella was there as well, half-hidden behind him, a shy smile on her face. Involuntarily, I tugged at my new shawl, hoping against hope that it made my dress look different. Yet when I caught Erik's eye, I knew he was not fooled.

"I am very sorry about the dress," he told me in a low voice, so that Meg, Jean and Mme.Giry couldn't hear him. "You see, I still possess the clothes I had once made for you after the model of your own clothes, and when Marcella needed a dress, it seemed the best solution. I didn't know that you were still wearing those dresses yourself."

I had no idea whether it had been Erik's intention, but the mere sound of his voice made me calm and peaceful. Now that he was here, I thought that the coincidence of the identical dresses was not so bad after all. I even managed a smile.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "You look… you look very pretty, Marcella."

The girl beamed at me, which made her look even prettier.

"Where is the Vicomte?" Erik asked, in an extremely casual voice that did not fool me. "Is he getting you something to drink?"

He looked around, but the only man in our group was Jean.

At that moment, I spotted Raoul walking towards us, talking to Cecile. She too was looking very pretty and smiling at the man at her side.

I felt the urge to cry or run away. Or possibly both. This was going completely the wrong way. I should have known that both men would arrive with their new girls, but I simply hadn't thought about it. Now we were heading for a catastrophe, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I could only watch, as if this was still part of the performance, and I was merely a member of the audience. At least my children didn't have to see it. Realising what was about to happen in the same moment I did, Meg engaged both of them in conversation, steering them away from where I stood. I had no idea what she promised Philippe to get him away from his Uncle Erik without speaking a word, but it had to be something big.

Raoul reached us moments later. He looked at Erik, and Erik looked at him. Then their gaze wandered to the girl at the other man's side. They frowned. Slowly, very slowly, they both turned to me, puzzled.

"Christine?" they asked in unison.

I blushed deeply.

"I… I can explain," I stammered. "Really, I can. Will you… will you come with me and listen?"


	47. Chapter FortySeven

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Like always, Erik was the first to react.

"Of course," he said. His voice sounded remarkably calm, but he still looked puzzled.

"Yes," Raoul hastened to agree mere moments later.

It was clear that even though he had no idea what I was about to say, he wouldn't let me tell Erik only. If I hadn't been so nervous, I'd have found it quite amusing how quickly the old rivalry between the men had returned.

Now it were the two girls who looked puzzled.

"Signor Erik?" Marcella started, then let out a stream of very fast Italian.

I couldn't understand a word of it, but it wasn't necessary. She was probably saying the same Cecile was saying, and even though the other girl tried to keep her voice down, I could understand her perfectly well.

"What is going on, M. le Comte?" she asked, throwing me a not very friendly glance. "What does your… your…" She seemed to struggle to find the right word to describe my relationship to Raoul, but failed. "What does she want?"

"I don't know," Raoul replied. "But I'll soon find out."

"Why?" Cecile blurted out. "Why do you have to go with her if you have no idea what she wants?"

"She's my wife," he said simply.

My heart missed a beat. For the first time since Raoul had shown up, I thought that maybe, it would be all right after all. At least none of the men refused to talk to me. They both seemed willing to listen to what I had to say.

I watched Raoul give Cecile an awkward pat on the shoulder.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself without me," he told her. "You can get a drink over there…" He pointed at a corner of the hall. "…and I'll be back soon."

Cecile nodded reluctantly. She still looked angry, but she seemed to accept that there was nothing she could do to make him change his mind. I could have told her that much before. Raoul didn't look it, but he could be remarkably stubborn, a character trait that our children had inherited from him.

Since everything between them was settled, I looked over at Marcella and Erik. The girl didn't look angry like Cecile, but worried and anxious. I still couldn't understand what she was saying, but from the way she gazed nervously at the people around her, I could tell that the prospect of staying here alone frightened her.

Erik seemed to think the same, for he asked,

"Christine, do you think Marcella could stay with Meg till we come back? She doesn't want to be here alone. All those people… It's a little too much for her."

I smiled. Now that I knew the men were on my side, I found it even easier to be understanding. I suddenly recalled that when I had still been a chorus girl, large crowds of people had frightened me as well.

I had just opened my mouth to reply, when Meg turned around to us, confirming my suspicion that even though she pretended to be deep in conversation, she was listening to every word.

"Of course she can stay with us," she said kindly, beckoning her towards the group. "Come here, Marcella. Jean will get you something to drink."

Hesitantly, Marcella joined the group. After a moment, Cecile did the same.

"Now that is settled," Erik commented cheerfully. "Shall we go?"

He talked as though it was perfectly normal to leave a celebration for a cladestine meeting. His friendliness gave me back a little of my self-confidence.

"I think we should go and find an empty room," I suggested.

"It won't be difficult to find such a place," Erik said. "Most rooms will be deserted because everyone is here."

He offered me his hand, and I took it. The next moment, I felt a tug at my other hand and saw that Raoul had seized it. I gave him a tentative smile, which he returned.

We were lucky. Everyone was too busy drinking and talking to notice us leave. We could simply slip out of the hall.

Walking down the corridor, I felt like I was going for a walk with my children, back when they had still been young enough to hold my hand at all times. It had never felt this exciting, though. It was strange, holding the hands of the two men who meant the most to me, strange and wonderful.

The main difference to going for a walk with my children was the complete absence of talk, something that would have been impossible if Antoinette had been around. I didn't know what to say, and judging by the men's silence, they didn't know it either.

"Let us try this one," Erik said after a few minutes, coming to a halt in front of a door.

He pushed down the door handle and let us into the room. The moment he turned on a lamp, I saw that he had led us into the costume chamber. Colourful dresses were sparkling in the lamp light. Directly in front of us, pieces of fabric had been picked up from the floor and discarded hastily. I smiled to myself, knowing it had been Meg and Jean on the search for my new shawl.

"Christine?"

Erik's gentle voice reminded me why we had come here. The men had let go of my hands as we had gone inside. I suddenly wished they hadn't. I opened my mouth, but only a little squeaking sound came out. My mouth was completely dry. I cleared my throat, gulped a couple of times and tried speaking again.

"Well…" I started. My voice sounded slightly hoarse, but at least it was working. "I'm sure you want to know why I brought you here and what has just happened in the hall."

"Indeed," Erk agreed. "I thought you were with the Vicomte again, but then I saw him with another girl." He rounded on Raoul. "What were you doing with her?" he asked sharply. "If this means you are betraying Christine…"

"_I_ am betraying Christine?" Raoul blurted out indignantly. "I'd never do that. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. Don't you remember that she and I are no longer a couple? But you! You show up at the celebration with another girl! Who is she, another little singer? _You_ are the one betraying Christine, so shortly after she and you have grown close again! I won't have her treated like that! It's bad enough that she chose you over me, and…"

The rest of the sentence was lost as Erk seized Raoul by the front of his jacket and pushed him back against the wall. Raoul gasped for breath.

"How dare you?" Erik hissed. "How dare you say I'd treat Christine badly? I've never treated her badly, not once! I've always been there for her! I've always protected her!"

Raoul tried to shove Erik away from him, but he was too strong. His face was red with effort. Erik's face was red, too, even the half covered with the new mask. If it hadn't been so frightening, I'd have made a comment on the improved quality of the material.

"Stop! Stop!" I yelled, fear making my voice shrill.

Surprised, the men stopped struggling and turned to face me. Erik even let go of Raoul.

"What are you doing?" I asked, panting as if I had been involved in the struggle, too. "I brought you here so I could explain everything. Instead, you start fighting."

"He insulted me," Erik said at once.

"He insulted me first," Raoul gave back.

I let out an incredulous little laugh. Once again, the comparison to my children pushed itself to the front of my mind.

"Stop it," I repeated sternly. "One more insult, and I will leave straight away, and you will never know what I wanted to tell you."

This threat worked just as well as the one to send my children to bed without a bed-time story had once done. Erik and Raoul sat down on two low stools on opposite sides of a table littered with rolls of fabric, scissors and needles. They didn't look at each other. Their gaze was fixed on me.

"Well," I started for the second time. "I can understand that what you just saw at the celebration made you confused. But you mustn't be angry at each other. Only I am to blame. I… I lied to you both. I told you, Erik, that Raoul and I were close again, and you, Raoul, I told the story the other way round. But none of it is true. I only said it because you both looked so happy with the other girls, and I wanted to appear happy, too."

"Is there… someone else?" Raoul asked glumly.

I shook my head.

"There is no one," I replied. "No man, I mean. I've only got my children."

And then it happened. Without meaning to do so, I went on,

"My _three_ children. Clarille is not Meg's daughter. She is mine. And one of you is her father."


	48. Chapter FortyEight

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

The men gaped at me, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. If they had been surprised and puzzled before, it was nothing to how they looked now. They didn't even seem capable of speech. Their faces, which had been so flushed from their fight, were white as milk.

I wanted nothing more than run away, go back to the celebration and pretend that nothing had happened. But I knew I couldn't do that. Now that I had started, I had to go through with it. I had to look into Erik's and Raoul's faces and tell them what they needed to know. I had to make them understand why I had done what I had done. Judging by the expressions on their faces, they didn't understand a thing right now.

Or did they? Comprehension dawned on Raoul's face.

"Clarille…" he whispered. "Clarille… You've named the child after my mother. This means she's mine… doesn't it?"

I shook my head, hating to disappoint him.

"Her full name is Clarille Madeleine," I explained quietly. "Clarille after your mother, Raoul, and Madeleine after Erik's. I wanted to name her after her grandmother, but since I didn't know which one…" I shrugged. "I chose to call her Clarille Madeleine rather than Madeleine Clarille because C comes before M in the alphabet," I added, just in case the men would try to read a special meaning into the order of the names, too.

"So you… truly don't know who the father is?" Raoul asked. "You have no idea? None at all?"

Again, I shook my head.

"She was conceived on or around the day of the fire," I replied. "And in that time… I've been with both of you. I know it was wrong, but I can't change what has happened."

I went on, explaining about my decision to conceal that I had been with child, about Meg and the others offering their help and about how it had all been working since that time.

"Clarille is staying with Antoinette, Philippe and me, now that we've moved away from Meg's house, of course," I finished my story. "She knows that it is where she belongs, and the other children know it, too. But we visit Meg and Michel a lot. The two little ones have lives like twins for so long. It would have been cruel to separate them for good."

Raoul looked at me for a long moment.

"You've never told me," he muttered. "You told Meg and Jean, you told Mme.Giry, you told the children, you even told Jacqueline, but you never told me. I've seen Clarille… I've even held her in my arms once… I didn't want to, but Meg insisted… Now I know why she was so adamant… Clarille could be mine, and I didn't know it… I simply didn't know…"

He winced and closed his eyes, as if the thought was too painful for him to bear. In that moment, he didn't look much older than when we had first met, all those years ago.

I reached down and patted his shoulder gently.

"I couldn't have told you," I murmured. "What should I have said? ´I'm with child, and you could be the father, but it could just as well be Erik because I've been with both of you´? Would you have liked to hear something like that?"

"It would at least have been honest," Raoul insisted. "You lied to me for years. If I had known…"

"What would you have done?" I asked seriously. "What? It wouldn't have changed anything between us. I… I would have still been the woman who had betrayed you."

Raoul gazed at me, and there was something like longing in his eyes.

"If you had known back then that you were with child," he began. "Would you still have made me leave?"

I didn't reply straight away. It was a question worth thinking about. One thing was certain: It would have made my life much easier to have Raoul stay with me. There would have been no need to hide the fact that I had been with child. I wouldn't have had to fear the opinion of others. No one would have thought twice about Raoul and me having a third child. It would have been perfectly normal. But then…

"Yes, Raoul," I replied. "I would have still asked you to leave. Like I said, it wouldn't have changed what happened between us. Only the circumstances would have been different. If anything, it would have made our life together even more difficult. How would you have felt if people had congratulated you, and you wouln't even have been sure whether the child was yours?"

Raoul turned his head away from me abruptly, his whole body tense.

"It couldn't have been worse than how I feel now," he muttered with a strangled little sob. Before I knew what was going on, he had clapped his hands over his face and was crying, trembling from head to foot.

I didn't pause to think. I kneeled down in front of his stool and pulled him into an embrace. He put his head on my shoulder and wrapped his arms around me so tightly that I gasped for breath. Muttering words of comfort, I waited for him to calm down, feeling the shoulder part of my dress growing wetter and wetter under the already soaked shawl.

I knew that I couldn't help him any more than I already did. He needed time, and I was more than willing to give it to him. I hoped he'd feel better once he stopped. It was a strange feeling to kneel there, holding him in my arms. I thought back to all the times we had embraced. It must have been a thousand times.

There had been a time when I had taken signs of affection such as embraces for granted. I had assumed that Raoul and I would be together for the rest of our lives, and we'd always be able to embrace each other. Now I knew better. The wonderful security of having someone to love could end as suddenly as everything else in life. I only wished I had enjoyed it more while it had lasted.

Gradually, Raoul's sobs subsided. His body stilled. I seized the chance to straighten up a little, for my back and my legs were aching from the crouched position. Raoul and I looked at each other, our faces inches apart. He gave me a smile that was half-embarrassed, half something I couldn't quite fathom.

Tentatively, he brought his lips to mine. Our mouths were barely touching. It was the mere shadow of a kiss, very soft, almost questioning. My body reacted before I could think about what to do. My lips returned the kiss. I felt his lips, which were so familiar that my whole body was aching for more.

I closed my eyes. I didn't need to see, didn't need to hear. I only needed to feel, feel his tongue slipping into my mouth and feel his hand sneaking into my hair, holding my head in place. Images of other kisses we had shared, which I had thought forgotten, came to my mind. How could I have lived without it for so long?

I felt like someone dying of thirst who had finally found water. My water was pure, unadulterated affection. I had not felt anything like it in years. It filled my whole body, soft and gentle and very warm.

A sudden loud bang brought us to our senses. My eyes snapped open, and we broke apart. As I spun around to locate the source of the noise, I lost my balance, fell backwards and landed on my backside with a dull thumping sound. It was the unpleasant and somewhat embarrassing end of a wonderful moment.

"What happened?" Raoul asked. He sounded exactly how I felt: completely dazed, like someone having woken up from an especially pleasant dream.

"I… I don't know," I gave back. Then it came to me. I suddenly remembered that we had not been alone in the room. How could I have forgotten? "Oh no!" I exclaimed. "Erik!"

We looked around wildly, but there was no one else in the room. Erik was gone.

**Author's note: **Madeleine is the name of Erik's mother is Kay's book, of course. I searched through Leroux, but couldn't find the name of Raoul's mother anywhere. So I took Clarille, the name I always choose for her in my phics. Wait a moment, my dear readers of "Emptiness" will say now, isn't Clarille also the name you chose for Raoul's sister? True. Raoul's sister Clarille was named after her mother, whereas Sophie, the eldest, was named after their grandmother. Just a bit of random background information.


	49. Chapter FortyNine

**Author's note:** I'm so sorry for not updating sooner. Last Saturday, I had finished and half-typed this chapter. When I came back to type the rest on Sunday, I found that my computer didn't work anymore. I've been struggling to keep up with my work all week, and now, I've got a new computer (and I'm struggling again, this time with Vista). The good thing about it is that the next chapter is already finished. I'll post it tomorrow or the day after. Have fun!

**Chapter Forty-Nine**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

I let out a sigh of frustration. I couldn't have cared less where the Phantom was, as long as he was not here, disturbing us. If it had been for me, we'd have talked about what had just happened or – even better – we'd have forgotten the talking and continued kissing.

Unfortunately, Christine didn't seem to share my opinion. After she had made sure that the Phantom wasn't lurking in a corner somewhere (I wouldn't have put it past him), she opened the door and peered into the corridor.

"He's gone," she stated the obvious, with a little too much disappointment in her voice.

I suppressed the answer I was longing to give, a casual ´So?´. Instead, I tried my best to appear interested, even sympathetic.

"Maybe he just remembered that he had to go somewhere and didn't want to disturb us," I suggested.

Christine threw me a sceptical glance that told me she didn't believe the story any more than I did.

"He didn't say anything for such a long time…" she muttered. "It was not like him at all. I just… forgot he was there."

I nodded. It had been just the same for me, though, unlike her, I didn't mind in the slightest. My brief encounter with the Phantom had shown me that the years of travelling had not changed him for the better. He was still a very unpleasant man. I wondered what it was about him that had attracted the pretty girl he had appeared with at the celebration.

"We must have hurt him so much," Christine went on pensively, interrupting my thoughts. "How could we have let it happen? How could _you_ have done such a thing?"

"I beg your pardon?" I exclaimed indignantly. I did not like the accusing tone of her voice at all. "If I remember correctly, you returned the kiss. I didn't force you to do anything you didn't want."

"But you started it," she insisted. "I would have never… I wouldn't have done anything if you hadn't started it."

I wanted to give an angry retort, but thought better of it. It had been such a good moment. I didn't want to spoil it with an argument.

"Let us not argue," I said, as calmly as I could. "It's true that I started it, but you… you enjoyed it as well… didn't you?"

Christine seemed to consider my question for a moment, then she nodded.

"I enjoyed it," she told me in a soft voice. "Very much."

"So did I," I agreed.

I got up from the stool and walked over to where she stood. Slowly, I lifted a hand to her face and ran a finger over her cheek. She gave a slight shudder and turned her head away.

"We should go and look for Erik," she muttered hastily.

"Of course," I replied, suppressing yet another sigh. I had no interest whatsoever in searching for the Phantom, but knew I didn't have a real choice. Christine would go, with me or without me, and I preferred being with her to going back to the celebration alone.

We went outside and closed the door behind us. Then we looked up and down the corridor. No one was there.

"Where shall we go first?" I asked uncetainly. I had no idea where the Phantom would go if he was upset, and I wasn't willing to think about it either.

"I… I don't know," Christine replied, sounding just as uncertain. "It has been such a long time since…"

She made a few steps and peered around the corner, as if hoping the Phantom would just stand there, waiting for us to find him. Naturally, he was not there.

"Let us go… this way," I decided, pointing at one side of the corridor at random. After all, we had to start somewhere.

Christine nodded, and we set off. I wanted to recreate a little of the nice atmosphere, so I tried to seize her hand, but for some reason, I never quite managed to grasp it. I couldn't tell whether she kept pulling her hand away or I was simply too clumsy. Either way, it made me a little frustrated. I had just kissed Christine, and instead of being able to think about it and enjoy the memory, I was forced to look for the last man on earth I wanted to see.

We walked into this direction and that, glancing into rooms whenever we found them unlocked. The Phantom was nowhere in sight. Personally, I found it rather pointless to look for him. He knew his way around the opera better than anyone else. For all we knew, he could be anywhere.

The silence was as thick as fog between us. I would have liked to talk about the daughter I might have, about our kiss or every about something completely innocent like the performance we had seen. Yet Christine didn't seem in the mood to talk. There was an expression of great tension on her face. I sensed that she was thinking about our kiss, and not in a positive way. I wondered whether she regretted it. Or was she merely upset because the Phantom had watched us?

I for one didn't care much about the latter. Having him watch us certainly was preferrable to having to watch that man kiss Christine. If it had happened that way, I'd have left much sooner. Well, either that, or I'd have hit the Phantom to make him stop. I wasn't sure which one would have been better.

At last, Christine seemed to realise that we didn't stand a chance of finding him. She stopped so abruptly that I nearly walked into her.

"We'll never find him like this," she declared in a miserable voice.

"Well, shall we go back to the celebration then?" I asked. I'd have rather suggested going back to the costume chamber and continuing our kissing, but I had a feeling she would not approve.

Christine nodded.

"Perhaps Erik went back there, too," she told me, looking slightly more cheerful than before.

Secretly, I doubted we'd meet him there. If it had been me, I wouldn't have been in the mood for celebrating. But then, what did I know about how that man's mind worked? Nothing.

"But Christine," I said. "Before we go... shouldn't we talk about what happened between us?"

She looked at me for a moment, then she shook her head.

"I don't want to talk about it," she explained in a soft voice. "I don't want to talk, and I don't want to analyse. I... I just want to keep it in my memory the way it is. I hope you understand."

"I do," I muttered, even though I wasn't certain what she meant. If we had talked about it, I'd have been able to find out whether it would happen again. And maybe even whether I wanted it to happen again.

We made our way back to the entrance hall in a slightly more comfortable silence. When we reached it, we saw the group of people around Meg and Jean standing where we had left them. The Phantom, however, was not among them. Nor was the pretty girl he had arrived with.

"Erik came to fetch Marcella a while ago," Meg replied when Christine asked her about it. "I don't know when exactly it was. He didn't say much. He just promised Philippe that he'd contact him tomorrow or the day after to talk about when their next lesson will take place. Then he left."

"I see," Christine and I muttered.

She looked disappointed, and I tried to do the same. Inwardly, however, I was cheering. I had not been looking forward to seeing the Phantom again. I knew how short-tempered he was, how fast with his Punjab Lasso. I still had nightmares about it every now and then.

"M. le Comte?"

Looking around, I saw Cecile standing there, accompanied by Antoinette and two girls who I recognised as members of the chorus. I blushed slightly. For a while, I had forgotten that Cecile even existed, and now she was standing right beside me, smiling in an expectant way.

"Did you have a good time?" I asked her.

I felt uncomfortable talking to her, rather like a child talking to its mother while trying to hide the tell-tale pieces of the vase it had just broken. Yet Cecile seemed unaware of my troubled state of mind. She introduced me to the ballet girls and told me what they had been chatting about.

A few minutes into the conversation, I began to relax. No one seemed to realise that something extraordinary had happened between Christine and me. Maybe she had been right in her wish not to talk about it. It was our little secret.

"Shall I get more drinks?" I asked, feeling very cheerful all of a sudden. "It is such a wonderful evening, and we haven't celebrated nearly enough!"


	50. Chapter Fifty

**Chapter Fifty**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Despite my protests that I had to get Antoinette and Philippe into bed, we stayed at the celebration for quite a while after Raoul and I had returned to it. Everyone had been fast to point out that it would be easy for me to cancel the children's lessons for tomorrow and let them sleep longer than usual. Finally, Antoinette had hissed at me to change the subject. Apparently, the fact that she had a private teacher was very embarrassing to her in front of her friends.

I tried my best to focus on the topics of our conversation, but it was difficult. Instead of listening, I kept being confronted with images of what had happened between Erik, Raoul and me. The men's incredulous faces, Raoul's soft lips and the sound of the door slamming shut danced in front of my mind's eye, like a parody of the chorus girls' performance.

Every now and then, Meg threw me a concerned glance. She knew what had happened. I had told her hastily, when we had left the hall under the pretence of going to the bathroom. I wasn't sure what she thought about the whole story, for there had been no time to listen to her opinion before we had gone back to the celebration.

Of course, she hadn't been able to answer my most pressing question either: What was I to do about Erik? For a while, I had toyed with the idea of going to him and talking about it all. I was sure that Mme.Giry could have told me where Marcella lived, and Erik couldn't be far from there. But then, how could I know whether he wanted to talk to me? Given what I had done, I probably was the last person he felt like seeing.

I figured it was the best to give him a little time to think it all over. If he wanted to talk to me, he knew where to find me. And if he didn't, I could as well go to him in a few days' time or accompany Philippe to the opera when he went there for his lessons.

I could only hope he'd find it in himself to forgive me. I knew I had done wrong, just when I had been so determined to do everything right. The beginning had been acceptable, but the rest... I shuddered to think about it. I should have continued a sensible conversation about Clarille. Instead, I had found myself in a completely non-sensible activity and forgotten that Erik was there.

Why hadn't he said anything, though? Why hadn't he pulled me away from Raoul? It was not like Erik to simply leave the room without a word. Or was it? Perhaps he had changed in the years we had not seen each other. Perhaps the new Erik didn't speak his mind anymore. I knew so little about him these days.

When I wasn't thinking about Erik, I watched Raoul out of the corner of my eye. Philippe had crawled into my arms a while ago, which made it easy for me to look at Raoul over the top of the boy's head without anyone noticing what I was doing. Sometimes, I caught him looking at me, and then we both blushed and turned away. It was a strange thing that to most people, nothing seemed to have changed between us. Only Meg, Raoul and I knew the truth. So much had changed.

The problem was that I was not sure into which direction it had all changed. Was it better now? Or maybe worse? I suddenly wished I hadn't refused to talk to Raoul about it. But then, I had been so 

worried about Erik at the time that a sensible conversation about any other subject wouldn't have been possible anyway.

I looked over at Cecile, who was laughing loudly, and I wondered what was truly going on between her and Raoul. I hadn't failed to notice that she hadn't even called him by his first name. During our moment of intimacy, I felt as if I could have asked Raoul anything, even about such delicate matters, but now that the moment had passed, all that was left for me to do was observe them together and draw my own conclusions.

Cecile certainly seemed to be enjoying herself. She was chatting with some of the chorus girls, all of whom were giggling. Raoul stood next to her. He was smiling, but his smile was a little strained. He had always despised girls who giggled all the time, with the exception of his own daughter.

But then, maybe he was willing to overlook such behaviour in favour of other qualities. Cecile was younger than me, but was she prettier? I couldn't tell for sure. My opinion was too influenced by my urgent wish that he should not find her pretty.

I was so immersed in my pondering that I nearly didn't hear Meg addressing me.

"It is time for us to leave," she said. "What do you think?"

"You're right," I replied.

It was only now that I noticed how heavy Philippe had grown in my arms. He was fast asleep. Jean took him over, smiling kindly. The boy stirred, but did not wake up. It had been a long day for him. Meg and Jean left, telling me they'd check whether the coach was already there.

Antoinette bid farewell to her friends, and Cecile did the same. Raoul and I suddenly found ourselves standing in front of each other, quite undisturbed by anyone else.

"Well... goodbye," he muttered, giving me a shy smile.

"Goodbye," I echoed, at a loss for what else to say or to do.

We stood there for a few moments, gazing at each other. The growing tension was almost palpable.

Then, at exactly the same moment, we both moved forwards and kissed each other's cheeks softly. Compared to what we had done before, it was not much, but it meant a lot to me.

"Will we see each other again?" he asked gently. "To talk, I mean."

"Of course," I answered. "There is a lot to talk about."

"Yes," he agreed.

There was no time for a longer farewell. Jean came back and announced that the coach was ready, and I left the hall with him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cecile seizing Raoul's arm once more. I felt nothing but a fairly small pang of jealousy. The things that had happened between him and me had been so much better, and no one could take the memory away from me.

On the way back, with the sleeping Philippe next to me, I found it very difficult to keep my eyes open. I felt as if the evening had gone on for days and days. So many things had happened, good things and bad things, strange things and things I didn't have a name for at all...

When we arrived at my home, Meg had to shake my shoulder in order to make me wake up properly. I wanted to carry Philippe inside, but Jean insisted on doing it himself. Antoinette followed them. Even she looked sleepy now. We barely made it up the stairs. I said goodbye to Meg and Jean and thanked them for everything.

Once they had left, I brought the children to their rooms and wished them a good night in a sleepy voice. I couldn't recall the last time I had been so exhausted. I supposed it had something to do with the two glasses of champagne I had drunk. I wasn't used to drinking alcohol, and I hadn't eaten much all day.

I got undressed with clumsy fingers and sank into my bed, feeling vaguely grateful that we had arranged for Clarille to spend the night at Meg's home. She wouldn't have liked being dragged out of bed this late at night. I'd fetch her tomorrow morning, when I'd hopefully be less exhausted.

The moment my head hit the pillow, I fell into a fitful sleep, mingled with peculiar dreams.

_I was being kissed by Raoul, who turned into Erik, who turned back into Raoul. I tried to make them stop changing, but they wouldn't._

_Then I saw Clarille lying in her bed. Yet as I leaned down to look at her properly, her face began to change. A white mask appeared out of nowhere on the right side of her face. The hair on the left side of her head turned blond, and the colour of her left eye changed to blue._

_And then she spoke to me, in an eerie deep voice._

"_Are you content now, Maman?" she asked with a cruel laugh._

_She seized me by the shoulders and banged my head against the side of her bed, again and again. I screamed to make her stop, but she went on and on._

I woke up with a start. It took me a moment to realise that the hammering was not part of the dream at all. It came from outside. And now I heard a voice, too.

"Christine! Open up! Christine!" it called.

Its urgency sent a shiver of foreboding down my spine. I jumped out of bed and switched on the light. As I ran to the door, hastily pulling on my dressing gown, I threw a glance at the clock. It was well past midnight. I hadn't slept as long as two hours.

I hurried down the stairs as quickly and quietly as I could, anxious not to wake up anyone else. Drowsiness and haste, it turned out, were a bad combination. My fingers shook so badly that I hardly managed to turn the key in the lock.

"I'm right there," I hissed, eager for the noise to stop. It made my head hurt.

At last, I opened the door. Meg was standing outside, still in her splendid evening gown. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was panting.

"Christine..." she said, gasping for breath. "I... I don't know what happened... or how... Clarille... she's gone!"


	51. Chapter FiftyOne

**Chapter Fifty-One**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I heard what Meg was saying, but it didn't make any sense to me.

"She's not gone," I told her without thinking. "How could she have gone? She can't even walk properly yet. At least not without someone helping her. And why should she walk around in the middle of the night?"

I knew I was talking more than usual, but for some reason, I was unable to stop myself.

"She must be tired," I went on. "Surely she played with Michel all evening and only wants to lie in her bed and have sweet dreams now. My little Clarille, so tired..."

Meg seized me by the shoulders and held me in a firm grip.

"Christine, listen to me," she said seriously. "Clarille has not left out of her own accord, of course she hasn't. Someone must have abducted her."

"Abducted?" I repeated faintly.

At once, the image of a dark figure leaning over my little girl's bed appeared in my head, growing larger and larger.

"No," I groaned. "No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!"

Slowly, Meg's face began to spin before my eyes. Faster and faster it spun as her hands slipped from my shoulders. Black and white dots danced around her, making me even dizzier. I felt very cold. Then everything went black, and I saw and heard no more.

...

"Poor thing..."

"...fainted... just like that..."

"Yes, but..."

"...don't blame her... the circumstances..."

Voices growing louder and softer and louder again. Two voices. Two voices I knew. Two female voices I knew.

My head throbbed painfully. Apparently my mind was only capable of processing a very limited number of information before complaining loudly.

What had happened? Where was I? And who else was there?

"I think she's coming round at last," one of the voices remarked, somewhere close to me. "Christine? Christine!"

Something cold brushed against my forehead. Shuddering, I saw a person I knew. Meg was there, a sponge and a small bowl in her hands. Her face was on the same level as mine, but facing sideways. How peculiar...

It was only then that I realised I was lying on my side. I felt soft fabric under the right side of my face. I tried to sit up, but at once, the world started spinning again.

"Try not to move, Christine," Meg advised me. "The less you move, the sooner you'll feel better."

"What... what has happened?" I asked. My voice sounded strangely faint and hoarse.

"You fainted, my dear," the second voice I had heard before informed me.

A moment later, another face appeared next to Meg's. It was a kind face with round cheeks, framed by grey hair.

"Mme.Marandette," I whispered. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard your voice in the corridor," she replied. "It sounded frightened. I came straight away, just in time to help your friend."

"Did I wake up the children as well?" I asked. Something inside me stirred at the mentioning of children, but I didn't know what it was.

Meg shook her head.

"I've just checked," she told me. "They're still fast asleep. Don't worry about them. They're fine."

They both smiled at me, but it didn't make me feel better. On the contrary, the feeling of foreboding increased. Something was lurking just out of reach of my conscious.

"Do you remember what I told you before you fainted?" Meg asked cautiously. She sounded as if she knew what was lurking in my head, ready to attack me. How could she know it when I didn't?

I tried to think about the answer to her question, only to find that it made my head ache even more. The part right at the top of my head hurt most. I felt it gingerly and discovered a large lump.

"You stumbled backwards and hit your head on the bottommost step," Meg explained, watching me closely. "I'm sorry. I tried to, but I couldn't catch you in time to prevent it. It all happened too quickly. One moment I was talking, and the next..." Her voice trailed off.

"It doesn't matter," I muttered automatically. There were far more pressing matters on my mind at the moment.

I was still trying to remember what it was that she had told me, even if it made my head ache. I had a feeling that it was something important, something worth remembering. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to think with all my might. Yet all I found was a blur of images, with some snatches of conversation.

And then it all stopped. One image pushed itself to the front of my mind, and I heard only one sentence: _Clarille... She's gone!_

I gasped, feeling as though my whole body had turned to ice. Still I was trembling from head to foot. This was far worse than the pain in my head had ever been.

"Oh no," I heard Meg say. "No, no, no, Christine, stay with me... you mustn't faint again..."

Focusing on the soothing voice only, I forced down the fit of blind panic that had threatened to engulf me. In an attempt to calm down, I swallowed hard, but the only thing I achieved was that I noticed how very dry my throat was.

"Could I have something to drink?" I asked, glad about the innocent subject.

"Of course, my dear," Mme.Marandette replied instantly.

I heard the tinkle of china. Looking over to her, I saw her pour tea from her favourite tea pot into a small cup. She took the sponge and the bowl of water out of Meg's hands, so that my friend could help me sit up. With a vague sense of relief, I noticed that the world was quite stationary again.

Meg seized the tea cup and helped me drink. The liquid was hot and so sweet that I shuddered.

"It has to be that sweet," Mme.Marandette explained quietly, interpreting the expression on my face correctly. "It helps against the shock."

Now we were back on the subject. The tea didn't make me feel much better than before, but I didn't point it out to the kind woman. I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Instead, I asked Meg,

"What has happened to Clarille? Can you tell me?"

"I can try," she answered, looking doubtful.

I could tell that she was afraid of upsetting me further. I gave her an encouraging nod.

"I need to know," I insisted.

"All right," she agreed, with a little sigh. "Well, Jean and I drove straight home after we had brought you and the children here. By the time we arrived, Marielle was in a state of panic, shouting that Clarille was gone. She had looked everywhere, but she hadn't been able to find the little one."

"How could Clarille have just left?" I asked. "Didn't Marielle take proper care of her? Did she fall asleep?"

"No, she didn't," Meg replied. "She insists that she was awake all the time. She left the nursery for a few minutes, though, because she had heard a noise in one of the other rooms and thought a stray cat had come in through the open window. It happened before, you know, only last week. And when she returned, Clarille's bed was empty. Only Michel was there, still asleep."

"Are you quite sure that the maid looked everywhere?" Mme.Marandette wanted to know. "Perhaps little Clarille woke up and got out of bed because she wanted to find her Maman..."

Meg shook her head.

"That's impossible," she said flatly, crushing my hope. "We searched the entire house. Jacqueline and Gabriel helped, too."

"What about the garden?" I asked. "You can't have searched all of it in the dark."

"Clarille can't have left the house all by herself," Meg said. "She couldn't have made it down the stairs, and even if she had somehow managed to do it, she is too small to reach the handle of the entrance door. No, someone must have taken her."

"But who?" Mme.Marandette mused aloud. "Who could have done such a cruel thing?"

"I don't know," Meg replied. "We asked ourselves the same thing, of course. There was no one near the house, no one we could have asked whether they had seen a stranger. Christine, you know the neighbourhood. At this time of night, everybody is in bed there. The streets were deserted. I have no idea who could have done it."

"One always hears about such things happening, but I'd have never thought they'd happen here," Mme.Marandette said. "Only the other day, I read an article in the newspaper about a girl who..."

She went on talking, but I couldn't bear to listen. I didn't want to hear what had happened to some poor child. I was too busy worrying about my own daughter to care about someone else's.

Who could have taken Clarille? And why had that person left Michel undisturbed? The answer came to me in an instant: That person had not been interested in Michel. They had only wanted Clarille. _He_ had only wanted Clarille. My lips formed a single word.

"Erik..."


	52. Chapter FiftyTwo

**Author's note:** Thanks for all the nice reviews! I just want to let you know that I won't be updating again until next Wednesday or so. I'll be on a brief holiday in France with a choir.

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Meg_

I looked at Christine, frowning.

"What do you mean - ´Erik´?" I asked her. "Do you think we should ask him to help us search for Clarille? Yes, that may be a good idea. Erik knows a lot of – "

"That's not what I mean," Christine interrupted me. "I... I..."

She paused, her head jerking to one side. At first, I thought she was in pain again, but after she had repeated the motion twice in exactly the same way, I understood the meaning behind it: She didn't want to go on in front of Mme.Marandette. Whatever she had to say was a secret.

"This tea is nearly cold," I told the elderly lady. "Would it be asked too much if you made some more? I think we'll all be awake for quite a while, and your tea is truly excellent. Christine looks much healthier already."

"Of course I'll make more tea," she replied, getting to her feet. Throwing Christine a last concerned glance, she seized the tea pot and carried it out of the room.

"So?" I urged my friend, as soon as we were alone. "What is it? What did you want to say?"

"I... I think Erik could be behind it all," she answered, looking highly uneasy. It was clear that she found it very hard to make such an accusation.

"What makes you say that?" I wanted to know.

I myself had thought a lot about who could have done it, all the way to Christine's house, but Erik had never crossed my mind as a possible suspect.

"Well..." she began slowly. "You know what happened. You know what I told Erik and Raoul. Maybe Erik just... wanted to have a good look at the girl who could be his daughter and took her away."

"He could have had a look at her without abducting her," I argued. "He could have just come to visit her. Surely you'd have let him do so, wouldn't you?"

Christine nodded.

"Of course," she replied. "It would have been no problem, none at all. If he had just told me that he wanted to see her... But he didn't say a word. He just left."

"And that alone makes him suspicious to you?" I asked sceptically. "Perhaps he only left because he didn't want to continue watching Raoul and you kiss. Perhaps he was too angry to ask you anything."

"Yes, but that could be exactly why he took her," Christine said. "He didn't only want to see Clarille, but punish me by making me worry about her."

I shook my head, wondering why my friend was so negative about Erik all of a sudden. Was it because Raoul had kissed her, and Erik had not?

"I don't think Erik would do that," I told her. "He loves you. He wouldn't want to make you upset."

Christine did not reply. She merely gazed at me, her dark eyes full of a deep sadness that I was sure had little to do with Clarille.

"You can't know what Erik would do or not do," she finally said. "Neither can I, or anyone else. Even those of us who were close to him don't know him anymore. He was gone for such a long time."

"Yes, but..." I began, not sure what I wanted to say.

It was hard to find the right words while my friend was so determined to think the worst of Erik. I didn't know why she insisted that he had changed so much. I hadn't seen a lot of him since his return, but apart from the rather unwise move to bring Marcella to the first meeting with Christine, I hadn't noticed much of a difference in his behaviour.

"What about Raoul, though?" I asked, desperate for a different angle on the subject. "If you think Erik could have done it, you could easily suspect the same about Raoul. Maybe he also wanted to have a look at his possible daughter."

Christine dismissed my idea with an impatient gesture.

"Raoul wouldn't do anything like that," she claimed. "And even if he had wanted to do it, he couldn't have. Think about the time, Meg. When we left the opera, he was still waiting for his coach to arrive. His coachman isn't very reliable. Raoul couldn't have brought that Cecile back home, driven out to your house, distracted Marielle, taken Clarille and left again before Jean and you came back. It doesn't make sense."

I noticed that, if nothing else, Christine's head didn't seem to be aching anymore, or she couldn't have made such complicated calculations.

"You're right," I muttered. "Raoul can't have done it, unless we suspect that he took Cecile with him, and he wouldn't have been that stupid."

"Besides," my friend continued. "Why should he have done it? Before I left, we talked about meeting again. He knew that he could see Clarille if he wanted to. Why should he abduct her?"

"Hmmm..." I made.

Christine had a point. Still, I didn't like the way she was insisting that Erik must be the culprit. To me, her reasoning sounded far more like hurt feelings than like real explanations. I could understand that she longed to find a quick solution to a problem that was every mother's worst nightmare, but I didn't like the almost fanatical way she talked about it.

"Let us go then," she said.

"Go?" I repeated, puzzled. "Go where?"

"Go to Erik, of course," she replied impatiently, looking at me as if she thought me rather stupid. "We've got to go to him and get Clarille back."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I was aware than nothing I could say would make her change her mind. She thought that her daughter was with Erik, so she'd go to him. And maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. I seriously doubted that Erik had abducted the girl, and I was 

confident that seeing the truth for herself would make Christine realise that she had been wrong to accuse him. Besides, Erik would be a useful help for us.

"All right," I agreed. "But you've got to promise me not to accuse him of anything as long as we're not certain that he did it."

Christine nodded, albeit very reluctantly.

"Maybe I should better go alone," I added as an afterthought. "You're still rather weak, and it's the middle of the night. You should better lie down and..." I interrupted myself as I saw the expression on her face. It was clear that my suggestion made her furious.

"Do you really think I could go to sleep now?" she asked, glaring at me. "Meg, my child is missing, and we know the person who has abducted her. What would you do in my situation – try to find her or go to bed?"

"All right, all right," I said with a little sigh. It would have been easier without Christine, but I knew she'd never let me go alone.

I got up, and my friend came to her feet as well. I was relieved to see that she no longer seemed to feel faint. She didn't even have to hold onto the sofa for support, and her face wasn't pale anymore either.

We were just about to leave the room when we met Mme.Marandette, carrying the tea pot.

"Good gracious, where are you going?" she wanted to know. "Shouldn't you better go to sleep, Christine?"

"I'm feeling much better already," my friend replied with a reassuring smile. "We have to leave immediately. It's very important."

"But where are you going in the middle of the night?" the elderly lady asked, looking utterly confused. "I can understand that you want to do something, but wouldn't it be better if you went to your friend's house and alerted the police straight away?"

"Oh, we've already done so," I told her. "Jean, my husband, stayed behind to talk to them. But Christine and I... we've got... another lead, so to speak. It is possible that a friend of ours took the child... as a joke, you know. We just want to go to him and check whether we're right."

Mme.Marandette didn't look as though she had understood much of my quick explanation, but I didn't know what else to say without starting to lie. Moreover, I didn't want to upset or even scare her with the details of what could have happened.

"Could you have an eye on the children until I get back?" Christine asked. "I don't want to leave them alone, and Jacqueline is..." She turned to face me. "Where_ is_ Jacqueline, Meg?"

"She's still at our home," I replied. "I'd have brought her with me, but she wanted to stay with Marielle. Poor thing. She was upset enough as it was, and the prospect of telling everything to the police made it even worse. She needed a friend at her side. You know, with her background..."

Christine nodded. I didn't dare say more in front of Mme.Marandette, but my friend understood me anyway. If I had had a family like Marielle's, I wouldn't have been keen on being interrogated by the police either.

"Of course I'll look after the children," Mme.Marandette promised. "Do you know when you will be back?"

"Not until I've found my daughter," Christine replied firmly.


	53. Chapter FiftyThree

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Given how little I had slept before Meg had woken me up, it was rather astonishing that I didn't feel tired at all. On the contrary, I was wide-awake, gazing out of the window as we settled down in the coach. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't much to see. This part of Paris was very quiet at day-time, let alone by night. No one was outside in the street.

The closer we drew to the opera, however, the livelier the streets grew. The usual crowd of people making their way home from the opera or the theatre was gone, to be replaced by rather different kinds of people.

Men were standing on the sidewalk, talking loudly and with many gestures, drinking from bottles clutched in their hands. Not far away from them, a group of young girls was waiting for customers. Some called out to every man who passed them. Others stood quite still, their eyes fixed on the ground.

I was glad that Meg and I didn't have to walk outside alone, but were seated safely in a coach, accompanied by Gabriel, who could have defended us if necessary. I was even gladder that my Clarille could not be among those people. Sure, meeting Erik and demanding my daughter back would not be pleasant, but at least I could be certain that she was in no imminent danger.

Due to the fact that there were so many people in the streets, the coach could only move very slowly. I was sitting at the very edge of my seat, clutching my handbag. After a while, looking outside no longer distracted me, and I grew worried again. During my discussion with Meg, I had pretended to be confident that the conflict with Erik would be resolved quickly, but I was not so sure of it.

Erik was a difficult person, there was no doubt about it. It was hard to predict how he'd react when we'd approach him with the knowledge that Clarille was with him. I hoped he'd just admit it and give her back straight away, but I knew it wasn't very likely to happen.

Perhaps he'd try to justify himself, to find explanations for what he had done. However, I was prepared to accept none of them. There could be no excuse for scaring Clarille and me like that, let alone Meg, Jean and all the others. It had been an appalling thing to do, and I wouldn't be able to forgive it that easily.

It was also possible that he'd grow angry when we'd confront him. Perhaps he'd even accuse me of having done everything wrong by not telling him about Clarille straight away. He'd be right about that, of course. Still, it would be no excuse for what he had done. He had had no right to take Clarille, whether she was his daughter or not. I had told lies, yes, but what he had done was much worse.

Raoul would have never done it, I was sure of it. Apart from everything else, he knew how to deal with children. He'd have never taken Clarille out of her bed in the middle of the night, scaring her half to death.

Erik, on the other hand, had never had much to do with little children. I was aware that Jacqueline had allowed him to be with Philippe every now and then when the boy had been younger, but he had never been alone with him until much later. Would he know what to do if Clarille screamed for her mother or grew hungry and needed to eat?

"Can't you go faster?" I asked Gabriel.

"We're already going as fast as we can without running someone over," he replied. "But we're nearly there. Just a few more minutes, and we'll be at the opera."

Never had a few minutes been so long. It felt like hours till we finally stopped at the entrance of the opera. As soon as the coach came to a halt, I jumped out of it. Meg followed me.

"Shall I come with you?" Gabriel called after us.

"Yes," Meg answered, before I could turn down the offer. "It will be better," she added in my direction. "Safer."

Her words made me angry. Didn't they imply that I wasn't able to deal with Erik on my own? Yet since an argument would have only cost precious time, I didn't retort, but hurried up the stairs. It was only when I arrived at the door and found it locked that I thought about how to get in.

"I've got the key," Meg informed me, appearing at my side. "My mother gave it to me. Here is it."

She inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The large doors swung open with a creaking sound. All the lights inside had already been extinguished. It was completely dark.

"This should be better," a voice behind us said.

Gabriel had caught up with us, carrying one of the lanterns that usually illuminated the coach. He went inside first, and Meg and I followed him. Our footsteps echoed through the deserted entrance hall, making it sound as if there were dozens of people marching around instead of only three.

Involuntarily, I thought back to the many nights in which Erik had called me out of bed to practice. I hadn't been scared to wander through the corridors on my own then. I had been sure that the Angel of Music had been with me at all times, watching over me.

Now, however, I couldn't help feeling a little anxious. It had been such a long time since I had last been here by night. Moreover, no Angel of Music was watching over me today. On the contrary: The man I had thought to be the Angel of Music had turned against me. I was all alone. Meg and Gabriel were with me, of course, but they wouldn't be able to help much. At the end of the day, it would only be Erik and me.

I started to give Gabriel advice as to how to reach the cellars best, but Meg interrupted me.

"Let us have a look into Marcella's room first," she suggested. "I know where it is. My mother told me. And Marcella said that Erik often sits at her bed by night because she's scared of being alone. Perhaps he's there now, too."

I winced slightly. So Marcella told everyone that Erik spent his nights with her. How lovely. Impatiently, I pushed the thought out of my mind. There were far more important things to worry about at the moment.

"He wouldn't take Clarille to Marcella's room, though," I argued. "What should he do with her there?"

"I think it's worth a try," Meg said stubbornly. "What if we walk all the way down to the cellars, losing a lot of time, only to find his house deserted because he's with Marcella? Wouldn't you feel rather stupid?"

I nodded.

"All right then," I agreed. "Where do we have to go?"

Meg explained the way to us, and we left the entrance hall quickly. We walked as quietly as possible, lest someone was still out in the corridors, but we didn't see anyone. Even the most excited chorus girls seemed to be asleep by now.

As we reached the right room, I turned to Meg.

"Shall we knock or just go inside?" I asked uncertainly, my wish to enter the room as quickly as possible battling with my sense of decency and manners.

"Knock, of course," she decided and did so without further ado.

Erik responded so quickly that I jumped slightly. I had underestimated his good hearing.

"Who's there?" he called briskly.

"It is us," my friend replied. "Christine and Meg. We want to speak to you."

I heard Erik mumble something about how late it was. A few moments later, however, the scraping of a chair on the floor, followed by footsteps told us that he seemed to have decided to come and talk to us after all.

The door opened a little, and Erik peered through the gap. He looked irritated, and even more so when he spotted me. I threw him a cold glance.

"What is so urgent that it can't wait until morning?" he asked.

"My daughter," I answered simply.

"What has she done?" Erik wanted to know. "Has the fame gone to her head? Has she decided to join the corps de ballet straight away, and you want me to talk her out of it?"

How could he feign innocence like that? Did he want to mock me?

"I am not talking about Antoinette, but about Clarille," I corrected him, trying to stay calm, even though I felt myself growing angry. "You've stolen her. You snatched her out of her bed and brought her here. Give her back to me now!"

He frowned.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said shortly. "I have done no such thing. I haven't left the opera all evening."


	54. Chapter FiftyFour

**Chapter Fifty-Four**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

Christine surveyed me so sceptically that I felt the need to justify myself.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said. "Would you mind telling me what has happened before accusing me of something that serious?"

"Of course," Meg replied readily, but Christine interrupted her.

"We have no time for such nonsense!" she called, sounding both angry and slightly hysterical. "My daughter is missing, and you've got her hidden away somewhere. Give her to me!"

"Shhh!" I made urgently. If Christine went on shouting like that, she'd be sure to wake up every single chorus girl, singer and musician in the opera, including Marcella. I threw a glance over my shoulder into the room and saw that the girl was indeed stirring in her sleep. "Be quiet!" I hissed.

"I won't have you telling me to be quiet," Christine gave back sharply.

Realising that this argument was getting us nowhere, I made a decision. With one last glance at Marcella, I opened the door completely, stepped outside and closed it behind me.

"Now we can talk," I said. "But if you start yelling again, I'll go straight back inside," I added pointedly in Christine's direction.

She glared at me, but remained silent, folding her arms over her chest.

"Will you tell me what has been going on?" I asked Meg, sensing that I would not get a sensible answer from Christine.

Meg nodded. In a few sentences, she explained what had happened since Christine and she had left the opera.

With every word I heard, I grew more worried. A little child, abducted by a stranger... Anything could happen to her! I understood why Christine was so upset. Yet at the same time, I couldn't help feeling irritated. Why was it that she had instantly suspected me to be the culprit? Was I responsible for all the bad things going on in the world?

"So you came straight to me?" I wanted to know, unable to keep anger and sarcasm out of my voice. "I feel honoured that you thought of me. What are you planning to do now? Search the entire opera? Or will the cellars suffice?"

The irony was lost on Christine. She peered past me at the door to Marcella's room, as if seriously contemplating to enter and search it. I stepped sideways, blocking her path.

"You will not go in there," I said, my voice a mere growl. "Marcella is asleep. I will not allow that she is woken up and scared to death by strangers rummaging through her belongings."

I glared at Christine. She had no idea how hard it was to get Marcella to sleep every night. Even after living in the room for weeks, she still seemed frightened of it once the lights were extinguished. I had tried to persuade her over and over to believe that there were no ghosts, but to no avail. I didn't 

know what horrors had once awaited her in the dark to make her that frightened of it. Maybe I'd never know.

Christine glared right at back at me, defiance etched into every line of her face, which suddenly struck me as looking very old. It spoke a very clear language. She didn't care what happened to Marcella. She didn't care whether she woke up and was scared. All she cared about were the whereabouts of her daughter.

_It could also be your daughter._

The thought, so new and so exciting, appeared in my head all of a sudden. I felt the burning desire to find out what had happened to the girl and to punish the person responsible for her disappearance in a terrible way.

Christine must feel just the same, I realised with a start. And she thought I was the one responsible. That was why she wanted to search Marcella's room, as well as any other room in the opera if she had to. I still was a little offended by her lack of trust in me, but I could understand her marginally better.

"You may go inside," I said. "Or no! I know something better! I'll go inside myself and leave the door open. You'll be able to see the room for yourselves, but not go inside and disturb Marcella. She's used to sleeping with a lamp on, so she won't notice the light. I'll open all doors and drawers for you. You'll see that Clarille is not there. But you've got to be quiet."

Christine and Meg nodded, Christine looking a little happier with me, Meg openly grateful about my cooperation. I went back into the room, leaving the door wide-open. First of all, I made sure that Marcella was still sleeping soundly. She was. I hadn't really expected her to wake up. I sometimes left the room at night for a little while to stretch my legs, and she had never noticed anything. Yet since it was unpredictable when she'd wake up and need comforting, I had never been gone for long.

As I walked away from the bed, I began with the search of the room. It was a strange feeling, searching for someone I knew wasn't there, but I did it thoroughly. I had taken the lamp from the bedside table with me and shone its light everywhere: into the wardrobe and the small chest of drawers, under the table and under the bed, even into the corners of the room. Predictably, no one was there. The only thing I discovered was a rather large amount of dust, which had certainly not been abducted anywhere.

When I couldn't think of anywhere else to look in the small room, I went outside again.

"Are you content now?" I asked, looking directly at Christine.

"You could have hidden her somewhere else," she said stubbornly. "The opera is big."

"But I haven't been anywhere else," I told her. I tried my best to be patient, but it was getting harder and harder. "After watching the Vicomte and you... erm... getting friendly with each other, I went straight back into the entrance hall to fetch Marcella. She was tired, so I took her to her room. We've been there ever since."

Christine had the good grace to appear slightly ashamed of herself as I mentioned her encounter with the Vicomte, but still she argued.

"You could have left the room after Marcella had fallen asleep," she insisted. "You're so quiet. She'd have never heard you."

I heaved a sigh. There were many things I'd have liked to say, none of which very polite, yet the presence of Meg and the coachman Gabriel made me wary. I didn't want to appear rude, possibly making them think that I was capable of abducting the girl after all.

"All right," I said through gritted teeth. "Don't believe me then. Search the cellars. Search the entire opera if you must. But you know as well as I do that there are hiding places you'd never find, not in a hundred years. In the end, it all comes down to whether you trust me. If you do, you'll accept that I haven't taken the child. If you don't... Good luck with the search." I made a little bow and turned to leave.

A hand was clapped on my shoulder.

"Don't go," Christine said. "Please... I'm sorry... I... I do believe you." She gave me a tentative smile. "It's just so very confusing for me. Clarille is gone, just like that, and... and it would have been so easy if you had had her..." Her voice trailed off.

I covered her hand with mine, smiling.

"I don't know what to do," she went on in a whisper.

"The police have already been informed," Meg interjected.

I snorted impatiently. I didn't have a lot of faith in the police. I'd certainly not trust them to find a girl that could be my daughter.

"I'll help you," I volunteered.

"I hoped you'd say that," Christine admitted. "Will you come with us now?"

"What?" I muttered, taken aback. I hadn't expected that they wanted to act that quickly, now that their first suspect, which was me, had been crossed out from their list. "I can't go away from here now. It's three in the morning. If I leave, and Marcella wakes up... No, I can't do that. She wouldn't understand."

I glanced at the room, then back at Christine, whose face had lost some of its hopefulness.

Meg came to my assistance.

"I could stay with her," she suggested. "Jean is with Michel. He doesn't expect me back until later. I'll stay with Marcella and explain everything to her when she wakes up."

I nodded, grateful for her readiness to help me. Perhaps our friendship could be restored after all.

"I'll come with you if you need me," Gabriel said. "If you need a coach, that is. I could come back to fetch you later, Mme.Tavoire."

"Of course," Meg said. Then she addressed Christine and me. "And where will you go first?"

I smiled grimly.

"We'll pay a little visit to my dear Vicomte."


	55. Chapter FiftyFive

**Chapter Fifty-Five**

**December 10****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

Christine held back her questions until after we had said goodbye to Meg.

"Why do you want us to go to Raoul?" she asked as we made our way down the corridor that would lead us back to the entrance hall. "Do you think he might be involved in all this?"

"Don't you think so?" I gave back.

Christine shook her head.

I found it very hard to suppress my irritation about her reaction. Why had she automatically marked the Vicomte as innocent and me as guilty? Was it the old distinction from the days when she has known me as the Opera Ghost only, or were there other reasons? I strongly suspected it had something to do with the kisses they had exchanged.

"He has just the same reasons for abducting Clarille as I have," I said matter-of-factly. "Why try the far-fetched before the obvious?"

Christine seemed to agree with me, for she had no further objections.

We reached the entrance door, and I held it open for her. As we walked down the stairs, I looked for Christine's coach, but it was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Gabriel approached a coach that I knew belonged to Meg and her husband.

"Where is _your_ coach?" I asked her.

"I don't have it anymore," she replied shortly. "I sold it when I moved out of Meg's house. I don't really need it anymore. Gabriel works for Meg and Jean now."

I threw her a sideways glance, wondering why Philippe had never told me about it. Perhaps Christine had forbidden him to.

"Did you have to sell the coach because you... erm, needed a little money?" I asked cautiously.

"No," she answered at once, a little too quickly. "I just... don't need it anymore, that's all."

As I saw the almost hostile expression on her face, I decided not to mention the topic again, at least not now. Christine already was upset because her daughter was missing. I didn't want to make her even more worried.

Still, I couldn't help thinking about it. Was Christine in need of money? I had been sure that the Vicomte paid for everything. After all, she still was his wife, and Antoinette and Philippe were his children. But maybe she needed more money, now that there were three children instead of two. And since she hadn't told the Vicomte about Clarille, she hadn't been able to ask him for additional money either. It all made sense.

If Clarille was my daughter, however, I'd be expected to pay for her upbringing, and I'd happily do so. Come to think of it, I could give Christine money anyway. Even after years of travelling, I had more 

than enough of it, and the managers were still paying well. The only difficulty would be how to address the problem without offending Christine. I'd have to think of something.

Still feeling rather pensive, I joined Christine in the coach. Since it only had one bench for passengers, I didn't have to ask for her permission before I settled down next to her. There was no other seat. Still, I left a little space between us. I didn't know whether she wanted my body to touch hers.

"I don't think Raoul has anything to do with it all," she said as we drove down the silent street.

She seemed determined to pretend that the conversation about the coach and money had never happened, and I decided not to force her to talk about it. She gave me a lengthy explanation as to why the Vicomte hadn't had time for the abduction. It didn't sound very plausible to me. But then, I wasn't entirely objective when it came to the Vicomte.

"If you think he's innocent, why did you agree to go to him at all?" I asked.

"Well," she replied. "I have to inform him. After all, it could be his daughter missing."

"It could also be my daughter," I reminded her. "Does that mean you'd have informed me as well, even if I hadn't been your suspect?"

Christine mumbled something I couldn't understand. The meaning of it was very clear, though. She wouldn't have thought of informing me.

"I've been wondering, you know," I told her, not bothering to keep my voice friendly. She didn't spare me unpleasant truths, so why should I? "Why didn't you stay with the Vicomte all night? It didn't look as if you'd leave him anytime soon. Or were you finished that quickly, and he went back to his other lady friend?"

Christine winced as if I had hit her. I knew I had gone a little too far, but I didn't regret it. Her big revelation that the Vicomte and she had not grown closer after all, the thing that had made me positively light-headed for a few minutes, had lost all its importance. What did it matter if she had been with him before, if she kissed him that passionately moments after they met again? I was highly disappointed in her, and disappointment always made me cynical.

"Who is that girl, anyway?" I went on mercilessly. "She looked very young. But then, with the kind of money he possesses, it's not difficult to impress the young and gullible. I wonder what he told her about you. I wonder whether she knows that his wife took another man to her bed while he was gone, and that he still wanted to have her back, but she threw him out! I wonder whether she knows all that..."

I gave her a smirk. The next moment, she had slapped my face hard. I stared at her, unable to take in what she had done.

"Never," she hissed, breathing hard, her hand still raised. "Never say something like that again."

My face was burning, not so much with pain as with humiliation. I realised that she had had every right to slap me. My behaviour had been appalling. Hurt feelings had made me utter words that should have never left my mouth, words that I wasn't even sure I meant. After all, what did I know about the Vicomte and that girl? Nothing.

What I did know was that in the time before I had left for my travels, the Vicomte had loved Christine very much. How could I assume that he no longer loved her, just because it would have been more convenient for me, just because saying so had hurt Christine more? Sometimes, I was disgusted with myself.

"I am sorry," I muttered. "I didn't mean... Well, I'm sorry."

Christine did not respond. A very awkward silence fell between us, broken only by the soft voice of Gabriel urging the horse to go faster. Christine didn't seem to feel the need to talk to me anymore or even to acknowledge the fact that I was there. She gazed out of the window, her back turned on me.

Fine, I thought crossly. Fine. If she didn't want to talk to me, I wouldn't force a conversation on her. I had made a mistake, yes. I had said things I shouldn't have. But she wasn't perfect either. She had lied to the Vicomte and me for years. If I had known that I might have a daughter back home in Paris...

...would I have come back from my travels? Of course I'd have done so. Nothing in the world would have been more important than my child, my own flesh and blood, the product of my love for Christine and her love for me.

My heart gave a painful little lurch as I remembered the expression on Christine's face when she had slapped me. I knew that expression only too well. I had seen it on people's faces a thousand times before. Loathing. Christine might have loved me once, but she certainly didn't love me anymore.

"We're there."

Gabriel's voice interrupted my sad musing. The coach came to a halt in front of a tall house that would have looked impressive if I had been the type to be impressed by such things. Philippe had told me where his father lived now, but I had never been there myself. Well, that was about to change.

I left the coach and stretched out a hand to help Christine, but she didn't take it. Still not speaking to each other, we made our way to the door, and I knocked. Almost at once, the door was pulled open, which was surprising this late at night. Had the Vicomte developed a habit of staying up late?

"There you..." the Vicomte said, opening the door wide. Then he seemed to realise who was there, and his eyes narrowed as he gazed at me. "You!" he hissed. "What are you doing here? I thought it was the doctor..."

"Doctor?" Christine echoed her eyes wide.

"Why do you need a doctor?" I asked quickly.

It was only then that I noticed how white his face was, almost as white as my old mask.

"It's... it's Jacques," he replied in a small voice. "I think he's dead..."


	56. Chapter FiftySix

**Chapter Fifty-Six**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

"What do you mean - ´dead´?" Christine asked, her voice shaking.

It wasn't exactly an intelligent question, but given the circumstances, it was quite understandable. However, I was still struggling to remember who Jacques was. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

It took me a few moments to come up with the picture of an elderly man, uptight and stiff, who nevertheless had risked his life to save Jacqueline when the house had been on fire. I also recalled that he had been very ill afterwards. There had been something wrong with his heart as well as his lungs. I didn't know whether he had ever made a full recovery.

By the time I had remembered all that, the Vicomte seemed ready to reply.

"Cecile and I came back from the opera," he told us. "And there he was, sitting in his favourite armchair by the fire. We thought he had fallen asleep. Cecile touched his hand to wake him up... and he was cold... all cold... And he wasn't breathing either..."

"Was that when you called for a doctor?" Christine asked.

The Vicomte nodded.

"I sent a message to him hours ago," he answered. "The coachman should have returned with him by now... I don't know what that man is doing..."

He glanced over our heads hopefully as a coach drove by, but it didn't slow down. He shook his head sadly.

"Do you want to... come in?" he asked uncertainly. "It's so cold outside..."

Christine and I exchanged a glance and nodded. It truly was cold outside, but I assumed that Christine also wanted to enter the house to comfort the Vicomte. I myself had more practical reasons. It was clear to me that we could not tell him about Clarille's disappearance now, but I wanted to get over with it on the first possible occasion. Not that I truly believed him guilty – if he had had the child, he wouldn't have let us into the house that readily.

We crossed the threshold quickly and followed the Vicomte down a corridor. The impression I had got from the outside of the house was underlined as I glanced left and right. It was impressive... and gloomy. We passed a few closed doors, a dusty old grandfather clock and a book shelf whose contents looked as though they hadn't been touched in decades.

In the many years of my life, I had been inside a great many houses. This one had a dead feeling about it. Even my own house in the cellars of the opera, shrouded by eternal darkness, felt livelier. Personally, I didn't care where and how the Vicomte lived, but how could he even think of inviting Antoinette and Philippe to such a place? I'd have to talk to Christine about it.

The feeling of lifelessness and foreboding increased as we entered what I assumed was the sitting room. The fire had burned low, and it was very dark. Silhouetted against the fireplace was a large armchair, in which sat a man, his head hanging down limply, his eyes closed. I heard Christine inhale sharply behind me and could hardly keep myself from doing the same.

I hadn't seen Jacques very often. He had nearly always been in the house when I had come to check what Christine and my little Philippe were doing, but I had never paid much attention to the old butler, just enough to avoid him. Only on the day of the fire had I truly noticed him. I had always had a weakness for heroics. I had even briefly visited him in hospital once, though no one knew about it.

Yet not even then had he looked so... old. He seemed to have aged several decades in the time in which I hadn't seen him. I fetched the lamp that the Vicomte held in his hand and had a closer look at the old man. The light illuminated every line, every dark spot age had left on his skin. His white face shone ghostly.

I was not a doctor in the stricter sense of the word, but I could tell a dead person from a living one. I had learned which signs to look for.

"You were right," I said quietly after a few minutes' careful examination. "He is dead. Has been dead for a couple of hours, I'd estimate."

A sudden sob made me spin around. It had clearly not been Christine. It was only then that I spotted the girl sitting in the corner of the room, which was very dark indeed. I couldn't be sure, but I assumed it was the same girl the Vicomte had brought to the performance. After all, how many other girls could be here?

I looked back at the Vicomte. He clearly was torn between going to comfort the girl and staying with Christine. It was rather interesting to watch him struggle. As the girl gave a particularly loud sob, he seemed to make a decision and went over to her. He sat down next to her and muttered the usual nonsense people mutter when they don't know what to say and have not yet learned that sometimes, it is better not to say anything.

To my secret delight, Christine didn't look very hurt about being left alone. She walked over to me, but stopped a few steps away from the armchair. I knew about other people's inhibitions when dealing with the dead.

"Is he really... you know...?" she asked quietly. "Or did you just say it to upset Raoul?"

"He is dead," I assured her. "I'd never say something like that if it wasn't true. I am not that heartless."

Christine chose not to comment on my remark.

"I never liked him," she admitted. "I thought he was there only to disturb Raoul and me – an instrument sent by Raoul's family to have power over us. It never occurred to me that he stayed with him because he liked him and cared for his well-being."

Her voice was soft, almost hesitant. She gave me a shy smile.

"Do you think we should tell Raoul about Clarille now?" she asked.

I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head.

"He's too upset now," I replied. "He wouldn't listen anyway."

I couldn't see the point in telling the Vicomte something he'd only forget a moment later. Talking to him was not so pleasant that I desired to do it again and again.

"Then what shall we do?" she wanted to know. "Shall we just... leave?"

"Hmm..." I made, mainly to gain some time for thinking.

What _were_ we to do now? It seemed pointless to leave already, without having done what we had come for. Yet it seemed equally pointless to stay and wait for the Vicomte to calm down enough to talk to him. Who knew how long it would take?

Moreover, I hadn't really thought about what we'd do after visiting the Vicomte. There had been so little time for making plans. I knew that at some point, Christine would have to go to the Tavoire house and speak to the police, and I'd have to return to Marcella. But what would we do before?

I longed to do something useful, and the fact that I couldn't think of anything made me very irritated indeed. Here I was, kneeling next to a corpse. I hadn't even been able to do anything for him, now would I gain any knowledge from examining him further. He had been an old man, and he had died because he had been an old man.

"Yes, we should go," I decided. "There's nothing we can do now." I got to my feet and took a few steps to the corner in which the Vicomte and the girl were still sitting. "We will go now," I announced loudly, shining the lamp in their direction.

He looked up, blinking, and I saw the tell-tale traces of tears on his flushed cheeks.

"What?" he muttered slowly. "Oh... yes, yes... or no! Why have you come at all?"

The sudden question surprised me. Perhaps it was possible to talk to him now after all.

"We..." Christine began, only to be interrupted by a sharp knock at the entrance door. The sound reverberated through the silent house like gunfire. Even the girl in the corner jumped and stopped sobbing.

"The doctor," the Vicomte exclaimed. "At last."

"Is there a way we can leave without being seen?" I asked instantly. I didn't feel like explaining what Christine and I were doing there in the middle of the night.

The Vicomte looked slightly puzzled, but nodded.

"This door," he said, indicating a door at the back of the room. "It leads into the back yard. From there, you turn right at the corner, then right again, and you'll be back in the street you came from."

Christine and I turned to leave.

"But didn't you want to tell me something?" the Vicomte called after us.

"I... I'll come back and tell you later," Christine replied. "Now is not the right moment."

Before he could say any more, I seized Christine's hand and pulled her out of the door. As we crossed the dark back yard, illuminated only by the lamp I was still holding, I wondered whether the night could grow any more peculiar than it already was.


	57. Chapter FiftySeven

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

Following the Vicomte's instructions, we came back to the coach quickly. There was another coach standing right behind it, one that had not been there before. Looking back at the house, I saw that more lights had gone on. Clearly, it had truly been the doctor who had arrived. It had been just the right time for us to leave.

Gabriel gave us an expectant glance as we entered the coach. We shook our heads.

"Nothing," Christine answered his unasked question. "Nothing at all."

The coachman let out a little sigh.

"Where do you want to go now?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," I replied slowly. "Let us just stay here for a few minutes, till I've had time to think about it all."

Gabriel nodded readily.

"I'll close my eyes for a little while, if it's all right with you," he announced, stifling a yawn with his hand. "Wake me up when you're ready to go."

I checked the time on my pocket watch. It was indeed very late... or else very early, nearly four in the morning. I myself didn't feel very sleepy, but I understood that it was different for other people. They had never learned to make do with little sleep.

"So, what will we do next?" Christine asked me, settling down next to me and yawning as well.

"There are several possibilities," I answered, not mentioning that I didn't know what they were.

I gazed out of the window, as if hoping that an idea would suddenly appear there. But none came. My mind was blank.

There were things that could be done, yes, but it was hard to think of something that we could do just now, in the middle of the night. If I was completely honest with myself, I had to admit that the best thing would have probably been to go home and wait for the morning before deciding on a new course of action.

However, I was reluctant to give Gabriel the order to take me back to the opera and then escort Christine and Meg to their homes. To me, it would have felt like giving up, and I didn't like giving up at all. It was not like me to do so, especially after just an hour's trying.

Besides, I didn't want the night to end yet. It was such a strange time, almost surreal. I felt as if the moment I had opened the door for Christine and Meg, I had stepped into a most peculiar dream. No, actually, it had happened sooner than that. The dream had already started when Christine had told me that I might be a father. That had by far been the most peculiar event of the night.

"I think we should..." I began, but stopped as I turned around to face Christine. Her head was lolling to one side, and her eyes were closed. She had fallen asleep.

I smiled to myself. I hadn't expected this to happen, but now that it had, I was not surprised. Anxiety and worry had kept her awake much longer than she'd have usually been, but even they couldn't last forever.

Now there was no denying that it was time to leave. And still I couldn't bring myself to uttering the words. For one, it would have meant waking up the coachman, so soon after I had allowed him to rest.

Besides, sitting here was rather comfortable. At least the seats were softer than the straight-backed chair I usually spent my nights on when I stayed to watch over Marcella.

Not that I didn't like it. It was just... I had so little time for anything else these days. I had not composed as much as a single song since I had come back. I usually did all my composing at night-time, and at the moment, my nights were filled with watching the sleep of a fearful girl.

It was true that I sometimes left Marcella's room to wander through the corridors of my opera, but I rarely did more than make sure that the chorus girls were acting in a decent way or that the stage hands had left no candles burning where they could cause a fire. I couldn't go down to my house and do any composing then. There simply wasn't enough time.

I suddenly felt rather resentful towards Marcella. If it hadn't been for her, I'd have been able to compose as much as I pleased. I thought back to meeting Paul Deboile, the charming successor of M.Reyer. He had been so interested in my music, so eager to find out more about it. Talking to him had been a pleasure.

He had told me a lot about his compositions. Yes, he was free to do so whenever the mood took him, I thought bitterly. He didn't have a wife or children, no one to take care of. A wild longing for that way of living threatened to overwhelm me, a longing for that sense of independence.

If I had known it would be like this... I forbade myself to continue the thought in the way I had planned. Of course I'd have taken Marcella with me anyway. I couldn't have left her with that family, with that dreadful father who'd have never supported her talent.

And still... I hadn't thought I'd have to take that much care of the girl. Truth to be told, I hadn't thought very much about it at all. My main ambition had been to take her with me and turn her into an excellent singer. I had assumed the rest of her life would turn out just fine. After all, even Christine, who had been very shy back then, had found a friend in Meg Giry.

It was apparent to me now that I had underestimated the language barrier. Some of the chorus girls knew a little Italian from the operas they had performed, but none of them was fluent in the language or had any ambition to become so. Donatella Marchesi, the prima donna, was Italian herself, but she'd have rather bitten off her tongue than talk to a girl who, strictly speaking, wasn't even a member of the chorus.

Marcella had no one but me. It was no wonder that she rarely left my side. While it was very flattering to have a pretty girl with me at all times, it was getting a little... tiresome.

And then there was the constant fear that one day, my feelings for her would become less fatherly and more of the kind I had for Christine. I was no fool. I knew that Marcella would not fall in love with me. Apart from everything else, she was young enough to be my granddaughter and very 

pretty, too. Girls like her didn't fall in love with ugly old men. I had no desire to have someone else break my heart.

Seeing movement out of the corner of my eye, I emerged from my musing. Christine was stirring. She opened her eyes, blinking.

"Erik?" she muttered, turning her head in my direction. "Where... oh, I fell asleep... where are we? Aren't we at the opera yet?"

"Not yet, no," I replied, suppressing a sigh.

Now that Christine had told me unmistakably that she wished to travel on, I couldn't do anything but follow her orders. I woke up Gabriel and told him to take us to the opera, when I'd get off and Meg would get in.

"Why aren't we there already?" Christine wanted to know.

"Because I thought it best to let Gabriel and you rest for a while," I answered.

She glanced out of the window.

"Oh, this was all pointless," she remarked sulkily after a few minutes. She sounded just like Philippe had done as a little child, when he had been past the time to take a nap. "We should have never gone to Raoul in the first place. He couldn't have abducted Clarille. He's much too nice. I knew it from the start."

"Oh, and I'm not nice?" I asked hotly. Her tone of voice made me irritated. All the anger I had felt before, which I had tried to suppress by thinking about Marcella only, burned in my chest again. Did she think I had misled her for the mere fun of it? "If I had let you, you'd have searched the entire opera for Clarille," I went on, my voice rising. "You didn't do any of it in the Vicomte's house. And do you know why you trust him? Just because you kissed him!"

I didn't know what made me do it, except the overwhelming urge to prove my point. I pulled Christine towards me roughly and kissed her hard on the lips. Then, just as we stopped in front of the opera, I let go of her again and jumped out of the coach before she could say a word.

"Now you'll have to trust me, too!" I called over my shoulder as I stormed up the stairs, still feeling her lips on mine and realising that I had been wrong before. The night had just become even more peculiar than it had already been.


	58. Chapter FiftyEight

**Chapter Fifty-Eight**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I stared after Erik as he vanished into the tall, dark building, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Had he really kissed me? Or had it merely been my imagination playing tricks on me? Was I maybe still asleep? But no, I could clearly feel the cold night air on my face... and the soft touch of his lips on mine. I was awake, I had to be.

But why on earth had he done it? I wanted to call after him, to demand an explanation for his behaviour, but I couldn't get a word out. I was too stunned by what had happened. I felt as if I had received a blow to the head, but instead of making me feel bad, it made me feel strangely good... alive, somehow.

I reached up and traced my lips with a finger. Despite the cold air, they were warm. I smiled to myself. There was no denying that the kiss had felt very good, but I still had no explanation as to why Erik had done it. The kiss had been a little rough, almost demanding, but I didn't know what it was that Erik demanded. Maybe my mind was simply too sleepy to understand it right now. Maybe it would make perfect sense later. Yet somehow, I doubted it.

My eyelids drooped as I gazed into the darkness, waiting for something to happen. My head felt so very heavy. With a little sigh, I leaned against the side of the coach. Inside my head, a nice little song had started. I heard it over and over again. _Erik kissed me... he kissed me... and it felt so good... so good..._

The coach shook slightly, and my eyes snapped open. Someone sank down on the seat next to me.

"Christine? Oh, I'm sorry," Meg whispered. "Were you trying to sleep?"

"It's all right," I mumbled. "All right..."

I straightened up, pushed a strand of hair out of my face and glanced at my friend. She looked just as tired as I felt, with grey skin and dark shadows under her eyes.

"What happened at Raoul's house?" she asked, giving Gabriel a nod to indicate that she wanted to leave. "Erik told me you didn't achieve anything. Is that true?"

"Yes," I replied. "Raoul didn't even know that Clarille is missing, and we couldn't tell him either, because Jacques had just died and – "

"What?" she exclaimed. "Jacques is dead? Raoul's old butler? But why? What happened?"

I gave her a brief account of what Erik and I had encountered at Raoul's house. Even my tongue felt heavy now, reluctant to move as I formed words. It was very hard work.

"I see," Meg said when I was finished at last. "So you couldn't tell him about Clarille. I understand. But surely you'll go back to him later, won't you?"

"Yes, I will," I answered. "He has the right to know it. He..." I yawned widely.

Meg did the same.

"We should get some sleep before we do any more talking," she decided. "You'll come with me, of course. Jean can tell us what the police said."

My stomach contracted with fear at the mentioning of the police. Yet even that feeling was muffled by the overwhelming tiredness. There was just one other thing that was still important to me.

"What about Antoinette and Philippe, though?" I asked. "I can't just go with you and leave them behind. If they wake up and find me gone..."

"But they won't," Meg argued. "It has been such a long day for them, too. They'll sleep till noon, by which time you'll be long back. You'll just come with me, we'll talk to Jean, and then we'll all go to sleep for a few hours. Gabriel can take you back after breakfast."

I nodded. It sounded like a sensible thing to do, and even if it hadn't, I wouldn't have had the energy to disagree. Besides, as I looked out of the window, I realised that we already were on our way to Meg's home. She must have spoken to Gabriel before she had joined me in the coach.

"All right," I muttered, closing my eyes again. I couldn't remember having ever been more exhausted.

"Christine?" I heard Meg's voice, sounding very far away. "There is something else I wanted to ask you. Has anything happened between Erik and you? When we spoke, he seemed... a little agitated..."

"I slapped him... and later he kissed me," I breathed, my lips curving into a dreamy smile. "He kissed me... just like that... and then he left..."

I heard a sharp intake of breath. Meg said something, but I couldn't make out the words. I was too tired to understand them. Her faint voice was the last thing I heard before sleep overpowered me.

...

When I woke up, the room was filled with sunlight. The room? I frowned. Where was I? I sat up and looked around. I was in the bedroom I had inhabited while I had been staying at Meg's house. Nothing had changed since I had last seen it. The room was just as friendly and warm as it had always been. I instantly felt at home.

But why was I here, and not in my room in Mme. Marandette's house? I tried to think about it, but my mind was still too sleepy. It didn't come to any conclusion. All I found were vague images, but I couldn't even tell whether they came from dreams or from reality.

Looking down at myself, I saw that I wasn't wearing nightclothes, but a long dress. Only the corset had been loosened to make me more comfortable. I couldn't understand why I was lying on top of the blanket instead of under it. I gazed down at the dress, as if expecting it to answer my questions.

And in a way, it did. Something stirred inside me, some distant memory. There had been a problem involving that dress. I saw a pretty girl wearing an identical dress and a worried expression on her face. And then, as sleepiness vanished completely, everything came back to me at once, hitting me so suddenly that I nearly sank back onto the pillows.

Clarille! My little girl was gone! I jumped up from the bed, feeling alert and full of energy. The sleep had done me good. But had I slept too long? What had I missed? And why had no one woke me up? I 

crossed the room with a few fast strides and was about to pull the door open when somebody knocked.

I opened the door and saw Meg standing there, looking surprised.

"Oh, you're already awake," she said. "That's good. The police are downstairs. They want to speak to everyone in the house."

"Of course," I muttered, running a hand through my hair, as if to make myself more presentable. I didn't want the police to think badly of me. It was bad enough that my daughter was missing and I had no idea where she could be.

I made to leave the room, but Meg held me back by the arm.

"Christine, wait," she said. "Don't go yet. I've offered to fetch you, so we could discuss what to tell the police."

"About what?" I asked, frowning as I tried to free myself from Meg's grip. "There isn't much we can tell them anyway. We weren't even there when Clarille disappeared."

"I don't mean that," Meg corrected me, lowering her voice to an urgent whisper. "What will we tell them about who Clarille is? About who her parents are? Jean said he managed to avoid the question last night, but only because the policemen were very tired themselves and didn't pay attention. I'm sure they'll ask again today, and this time, there'll be no excuses."

I stopped dead. I hadn't considered that problem at all. For a moment or two, wild excuses began to form in my head, but I put an end to it quickly. Meg was right. There would be no excuses. I didn't want to lie anymore. I had started telling the truth last night, so I could as well go on with it.

"We'll tell them everything," I decided. "Everything."


	59. Chapter FiftyNine

**Chapter Fifty-Nine**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I insisted that before we went downstairs, we made a detour to the bathroom. Now that I had decided to tell the truth, it had become even more important that I looked as good as possible. I knew how often a careless appearance was associated with general carelessness. The last thing I wanted was for the policemen to assume that I was a bad mother.

As I glanced into the mirror, I was shocked to see what I looked like. My eyes were red-rimmed, and my face was pale. It was clear that even though I felt better after having slept, I did not look it. A night full of worries followed by a few hours' sleep with my clothes on and in full make-up had not done me good.

Hastily I combed my hair and tied it together into a bun at the back of my head. I washed my face and applied a little make-up to make my cheeks look rosier and my eyes less red.

"Hurry!" Meg hissed. She was standing in the doorframe as a lookout, in case one of the policemen decided to come upstairs and search for us.

I looked down at my clothes. There were creases all over them, signs of having worn them far too long. I'd have loved to put on a fresh dress, but there was no one who could have lent me something. Even after Michel's birth, Meg was much slimmer than me, and Marielle was too tall. Besides, there wasn't enough time. I sighed, giving up any further attempt to look better, and left the bathroom.

"What are the policemen like?" I asked Meg as we walked down the corridor towards the stairs. "Are they friendly?"

"Friendly?" she repeated. "Well... that's hard to say, really... I've hardly spoken to them. They only arrived half an hour ago, and they are not the ones who have been here last night. I went upstairs to fetch you straight away."

That was not the kind of information that could have made me any calmer. I couldn't have explained why I was feeling so nervous all of a sudden. Questions appeared in my head, harsh accusations. What if the policemen thought I had done something wrong? What if I _had_ done something wrong?

Had it been wrong to go to the opera and leave Clarille with Marielle? Had there been signs that something bad would happen to my daughter, and I had failed to notice them? Had I been careless or selfish? Should I have told Antoinette that I'd come to see her dance another time and stayed with Clarille instead? So many questions, and I didn't know the answer to a single one.

"You've gone all pale," Meg observed, pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs. "Are you afraid of the policemen? I'm sure they'll be nice to you. And if not, I'll have Jean and Gabriel throw them out. No one will upset my friend even further."

I gave her a weak smile.

"Unfortunately, we can't afford to throw them out," I reasoned. "We need them."

"True," Meg agreed. "But we could ask for other ones, better ones. Jean knows one or two men in the higher ranks of the police."

I nodded gratefully, even though I secretly thought it best to just try to cooperate with the policemen. Time was precious, after all, and we had already lost too much of it. We couldn't afford to lose any more time by demanding new policemen and telling them the same story over and over again.

We reached the bottom of the stairs and continued to the sitting room. I felt myself growing more nervous with every step I took. The door to the sitting room stood open. Meg went inside first, and I followed her, trying my best to appear self-assured.

I saw Jean first, sitting on the sofa. He gave me an encouraging smile, which I returned nervously. Meg went straight to him and sat down on the sofa as well, but I wasn't sure where I should go. Did people who were about to be questioned by the police usually sit down or remain standing? Did they wait for someone to tell them what to do?

I let my gaze wander through the room till I spotted the two policemen. One of them was standing at the fireplace, one in the corner, busy taking notes.

"Mme. de Chagny," the man at the fireplace greeted me.

He stepped forward and seized my hand, brushing it with his lips. His thick black moustache tickled my skin. As the man straightened up, I could look at him properly. He had hair the same colour as his moustache and dark eyes that gazed at me intently. I noticed that he was very tall, much taller than me. It was hard not to feel intimidated.

"I am Inspector Ganá," he introduced himself. "And that is Dupin, my assistant," he added, indicating the man in the corner.

I only caught a brief glimpse of round cheeks and blond hair before I focused my attention on the Inspector again.

"Nice to meet you," I gave back. "And you."

M.Dupin nodded curtly, then bent his head over his notes again. I had no idea what he was so immersed in, even before the Inspector had asked me a thing.

"As your friend Mme.Tavoire has doubtlessly told you," Inspector Ganá went on. "I would like to ask you some questions regarding the disappearance of the child Clarille." He glanced over pointedly as Meg and Jean. "I would like to do so alone. If you wouldn't mind..."

Meg looked at me, and I nodded. I knew how suspicious it would look if I insisted on them staying. Meg and Jean got up from the sofa went over to the door.

"We'll be right next door," Meg murmured as she walked past me.

I nodded again. I was sure that if I needed them, they'd be there to help me.

"Sit down, why don't you?" the Inspector said as the door was closed. "I believe you've had a long night."

I sat down on the sofa Meg and Jean had vacated, feeling slightly better. At least the Inspector seemed to understand my situation. He took the armchair opposite the sofa. M.Dupin drew nearer and came to a halt a step behind the armchair.

"So," Inspector Gané began. "What is your relation to the missing child?"

I took a deep breath.

"She is my daughter," I declared, glad that my voice was quite steady.

The Inspector's bushy eyebrows shot upwards till they threatened to disappear under his fringe.

"Your daughter?" he repeated. "But I thought... Why didn't you say so sooner? Why didn't M.Tavoire tell us about it?"

"No one ever asked us," I replied calmly.

"Dupin!" the Inspector bellowed, turning his head into the direction of his assistant.

The young man browsed through his notes, his cheeks flushed. When he emerged again, he shook his head.

"I can't find any mention of the girl's parents anywhere," he muttered. "They must have forgotten to ask..."

"Forgotten to ask..." the Inspector said in a low voice that sounded almost dangerous. I didn't envy the policemen who had questioned Jean the day before.

When he turned back to me, however, he gave a small smile.

"But it is not your fault that my policemen can't even ask the most basic questions," he told me. He was clearly struggling not to let his anger show. "So... you're the child's mother."

"Yes, I am," I said.

I had used the time in the bathroom to come up with a story that was the truth, but didn't give away that we had been lying for years before.

"My best friend Meg Tavoire and I discovered that we were with child at almost the same time," I went on. "She and I were still living together back then because our house had burned down – I'm sure you've got a file about it somewhere – and Meg and her husband had offered to take us in. We decided to stay together, even after my husband had moved out. He and I... had a few problems..."

The Inspector nodded and made an encouraging gesture.

"The children – my daughter Clarille and Meg's son Michel – were born a few months later, and they grew up together, almost like twins. In fact," I gave a laugh. "There were some people who actually believed them to _be_ twins, even though we never said anything like it. Anyway, I found a new place to stay for my children and me a few weeks ago, but we still met almost every day. So it was only natural that I left Clarille with Michel and the maid Marielle when I went to the opera to see Antoinette – my older daughter – dance in her first performance. If I had known something like that would happen..."

My voice trailed off. It had been surprisingly easy to talk about the past, but thinking about recent events brought tears to my eyes.

The Inspector cleared his throat and glanced anywhere but at me. It was obvious that he belonged to the kind of men who had little experience with crying women and didn't know how to deal with them.

"That should be everything for the moment," he said. "We'll contact you as soon as we've got news or require further information. In the meantime, try to... get some rest or... something..."

He got up from the armchair and made his way to the door.

"Dupin!" he barked, but the young man did not follow him.

"One more question, Mme. de Chagny," he said.

For the first time, he looked me in the face. I was surprised to see light blue eyes that spoke of intelligence.

"You told us that you are Clarille's mother," he stated. "But who is her father?"


	60. Chapter Sixty

**Author's note:** This chapter was great fun to write. I hope you'll enjoy it, too. Oh, and in case anyone's been wondering: M.Dupin was named after the detective in Poe's "The murders in the Rue Morgue", which is commonly referred to as the first detective story ever. I thought it was fitting.

**Chapter Sixty**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

The question took me completely by surprise. It had come just when I had been about to calm down again, glad that I had managed to get through it all without making the policemen suspicious. Who could have thought that while the Inspector was content with my story, it would be his assistant, who had barely uttered a word before, who'd find the one thing I was reluctant to talk about?

Before I could decide what to reply, however, Inspector Ganá had taken over the talking for me.

"Dupin," he said, advancing on his assistant in a rather menacing way. "I would be very grateful if you would not bother this woman with your superfluous questions. This is Mme. de Chagny." He pronounced my name with great precision, as if telling it to someone who was nearly deaf. "Who else could be the child's father but the Comte de Chagny, her husband?"

I looked at him in surprise. He made it sound so simple. All I had to do was agree. A brief nod, a word of assent, and I'd never have to discuss Clarille's father with those people again.

But it was not that simple. The truth rarely was simple. It was confusing, and confused. I had promised myself not to lie again, no matter how much more convenient it seemed on the first glance. Who knew how many more lies would have to follow that first one? And what if my lie kept the police from finding Clarille?

"Your assistant was right to ask that question," I said. "My husband could be the father of Clarille, yes, but it could also be someone else..."

My voice trailed off as I became aware that the two men were staring at me. My cheeks flushed. I couldn't say any more. It was too embarrassing. Fresh tears sprang to my eyes.

Inspector Ganá scowled at his assistant, as if to say, _Look what you've done!_ He sat back down with a sigh.

"Did a man force himself on you, Madame?" he asked tentatively.

M.Dupin threw me a concerned glance. Clearly this was not the effect he had intended with his innocent question.

Again, I was being offered a solution. If I said that the Inspector was right with his assumption, I wouldn't have to admit that I had betrayed my husband. But at what a price? I would not only lie to the police, I'd also invent a crime that had never happened. And what about Clarille? They'd think her father was a horrible man instead of a loving, gentle one.

I shook my head.

"No," I replied firmly. "No such thing has ever happened to me."

"Oh..." the Inspector made, comprehension dawning on him. "Oh, I see. I see..."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and I knew that his opinion of me had not been improved by that piece of information.

The uncomfortable silence was broken by M.Dupin.

"So, who is the other man?" he asked, sounding perfectly matter-of-fact. He either didn't judge me the way the Inspector did, or he was able to hide it better.

"His name is Erik," I told him.

It was only then that I realised that every after all those years, I didn't know Erik's last name. I didn't even know if he had one.

"He... he's the Opera Ghost," I added.

M.Dupin's face was blank.

"Is that... the name of an artist?" he asked. "Excuse my ignorance, Madame, but I never go to the opera, and I don't believe in ghosts either. Who is that man?"

It was my turn for a blank stare. Was it really possible that he had never heard of the Opera Ghost? I had thought everyone knew him.

Inspector Ganá, on the other hand, gave an amused little snort.

"Of course you don't know the Opera Ghost... or the Phantom of the Opera, as he is sometimes called," he said. "You're too young. You were still a child when his name was all over the front pages of the newspapers, years ago. Oh, the stories some of the older policemen could tell you..."

His eyes suddenly had a dreamy, far-away look.

"I had just started in the police myself at the time," he went on, in a rather soft voice. "And yet I was one of those chosen to protect the guests and singers at the first night of the opera the Ghost had written. I was stationed in the orchestra pit. And I very nearly shot the Phantom, I can tell you that."

"My husband told me that you very nearly shot _him_, rather than the Opera Ghost," I commented dryly.

I remembered the young policeman from the tales Raoul had told me, years after it had all happened, once we had been able to talk, sometimes even to laugh about it. Yet I'd have never recognised the Inspector as the clumsy young man from the story. After all, I had never even seen him in person back then.

"Mlle. Christine Daaé, née de Chagny," the Inspector muttered. I wasn't sure whether he had even heard my interjection. "When I read the name this morning, I did think of you. But then I was sure it had to be a coincidence."

I smiled to myself. I could barely keep myself from asking how many people with the name de Chagny he thought there were in Paris.

Meanwhile, M.Dupin seemed to have enough of a conversation he understood little of.

"So this Erik... Opera Ghost... Phantom... man is a real, living person," he concluded. "And he could be the father of your child. Is that correct?"

I nodded, the smile fading.

"How could that have happened?" the Inspector asked. "Didn't the Vicomte de Chagny save you from the Phantom? Did he come back and abduct you again?"

M.Dupin looked at me in alarm.

"That man has abducted a person before?" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you say so straight away? This is most important! He could have easily done so a second time!"

"That's right, Dupin," the Inspector agreed, nodding excitedly. "Madame, have you told the Opera Ghost that he could be the father of your child?"

"Well... yes," I admitted. I didn't like the turn the conversation had taken, but I didn't know what I could do about it either. "I told him last night, at the opera."

"Aha!" both men called, thrusting their index fingers into the air in almost perfect unison. If things had been different, it would have looked rather comical. As it was, I felt scared and confused. I had tried so hard, and now the conversation had spiralled completely out of my control.

The Inspector jumped up from his seat.

"We've got to talk to the suspect right now," he declared.

"No, no," I called. "You've got to listen to me. Erik is not a suspect, he..." I didn't mention that until a few hours ago, he had been just that to me, too. "He couldn't have done it," I finished somewhat unconvincingly.

"No offence, Madame," the Inspector said, patting my arm in a fatherly way that made me want to be sick. "But I think I know more about criminals than you do. You may think that the man has changed, just because you've... been intimate with him. But I can tell you, those people never change. If they abduct a person once, and they like it, they'll do it again the next time they've got a problem which they think they can solve that way. It's all very simple, really."

"It's not!" I cried. "Listen... please..."

But the policemen were already in the corridor. A few moments later, I heard the front door slam shut.

Feeling weak and exhausted, I buried my face in my hands. I only noticed Meg when she touched my shoulder gently. I looked up at her.

"What happened?" she asked. "We heard loud voices. Why have the policemen already left?"

I burst into tears.

"It has gone all wrong," I sobbed. "All wrong..."


	61. Chapter SixtyOne

**Chapter Sixty-One**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

By the time I had returned to the opera, exchanged a few sentences with Meg and settled down at Marcella's bed, it was nearly five in the morning. Meg had left just in time. Half an hour later, and she'd have been sure to be seen by someone, which would have meant a lot of awkward questions as to why she was there. None of the singers or dancers were up that early, of course, but the stagehands and the women cleaning the opera had to start at that time, or they'd never be finished.

There was no time for one of my usual strolls either, but after all that had happened, I didn't feel like it anyway. For once, I was perfectly content to sit on my chair and watch Marcella sleep. She always was a fitful sleeper, and today it was even worse than usual. I could only guess that even though she had not woken up all night, some part of her deep inside her mind had noticed all the comings and goings.

Yet even tossing and turning, she was a beautiful girl. Her young life had not been easy. Born as the daughter of an ignorant man to whom she meant nothing, into an environment that stifled every bit of talent a girl could possess, unless it was a talent for cooking or sewing...

I suddenly realised how peculiar it was that I knew so much about Marcella's past, whereas she didn't know anything about mine. She had surely noticed that I was wearing a mask, but we had never talked about it. She had never asked me why I was not married and didn't have a family.

Come to think of it, she didn't know much about my present either. I had told her that I lived in the opera house, but so far, I had avoided showing her the cellars, and she hadn't pressed the matter. She had heard other people calling me Opera Ghost or Phantom, but she hadn't asked about those terms either. She didn't know what the French words meant and probably thought them to be normal names.

I couldn't help being a little relieved about that lack of questions. I didn't know what I'd have told Marcella if she had asked me about my past or about my exact position at the opera. It was so difficult to explain, and also very painful. I didn't want to talk about it. The less Marcella knew about me, the better it would be for her.

And yet... I stifled a sigh as I watched her roll over in her sleep. There were times when I did wish I had someone to talk to, a confidant who knew everything about me – a friend, in short. I had once believed that Christine could be my friend, but I had soon realised that it was impossible. People one loved made very bad friends. And while Meg usually was friendly enough to me, I knew she'd always be on Christine's side.

But then, I couldn't expect Marcella to become my friend either. The first step would have been to tell her about myself, and as I had just realised, I didn't want to do that. She was so delicate and so easily frightened. I couldn't bear the thought of telling her about certain aspects of my past and watching her grow pale and bite her beautiful lip, or maybe even ask for explanations I was unable to give. It would have destroyed every bit of confidence she had in me. No, it was impossible, and I wouldn't do to ponder it any further. I closed my eyes, willing myself to rest.

I must indeed have nodded off, for when I next glanced at my pocket watch, I saw that it was time to end the night. I was glad about any reason to get up. My back was aching horribly. Slowly, fighting back a groan of pain, I extended a hand and grasped the girl's shoulder, just like I did every morning.

"Marcella, la mia cara" I called softly, not bothering with French. At this time of day, Marcella didn't understand any foreign language. "It is time to get up."

The girl's eyes snapped open, and she sat up hastily, pulling the blanket up to her chin. It was the way she always woke up. It showed me how tense she was, even in her sleep, and how little she had settled in. It was as if she expected an attack at any moment.

"Sh... sh..." I made soothingly as I removed my hand from her shoulder. "It's all right. I'm here. You're safe."

Marcella turned her head in my direction. Her shoulders sagged as her muscles relaxed. She gave me a tentative smile.

"Signor Erik," she said, sounding deeply relieved. "I had a... a bad dream..."

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked.

She shook her head frantically, growing pale.

I nodded in a resigned way. Marcella woke up from nightmares every other day, sometimes screaming in terror, sometimes drenched in cold sweat. She never wanted to tell me about them. I had grown used to it, but I still offered to speak about them every time, hoping that one day, she'd open up to me.

"You can wash yourself and get dressed now," I told her. "I'll fetch your breakfast." I often had her breakfast ready by the time I woke her up, but today, I had forgotten all about it.

Marcella threw me a frightened glance.

"You will not stay away too long, will you?" she asked.

"Of course not," I assured her. "I'll be back before you know it."

As I closed the door behind me, I wondered what Marcella would say if she knew that I had been gone for hours the previous night. She'd have surely been terrified. Even the knowledge that someone else had been with her would not have consoled her. I was the only person she trusted.

When I reached the room in which the chorus girls had breakfast, it was still empty. On a normal day, the girls would have already been here, but they had been given the morning off because of the performance. Not that I'd have been afraid of fetching Marcella's breakfast with the chorus girls around. After all, I paid for it. It was much more convenient than fetching food from my house every day. No, I just couldn't stand the ballet rats and their chattering this early in the morning, and especially not after such a night.

I took a little of the food I knew Marcella liked best and piled it onto a plate. There wasn't a lot of variety these days. It would be better in the summer, when there'd be plenty of fresh fruit to choose from. I always tried to bring her a special treat every day, usually cakes or chocolates, for the girl didn't eat much more than a mouse. She'd smile and thank me, but rarely could I coax her to eat more.

On my way back to Marcella's room, I thought about how best to tell the girl that I'd have to leave her alone today. I had to search for Clarille, and the fact that I didn't know where to start meant that I couldn't know how long it would take. All that I did know was I'd do whatever I could. I had come to the conclusion that it mattered little whether she was mine or not. She was Christine's child, and I had to help her.

I doubted that Marcella would be impressed by such things, though. Suddenly, her lack of knowledge about my past, which I had thought was so good for her, became a problem. Without it, she couldn't possibly fathom how much Christine meant to me, and she didn't know that Clarille might be my daughter. She would not understand.

Then there was the matter of who I could leave her with. She had stayed with Meg and Mme. Giry the previous night when I had gone with Christine. She might do so again, but I was sure that both women would be with Christine. Maybe I could ask one of the more understanding chorus girls. There were two or three which Paul had described to me as sensible and reliable when we had discussed possible changes in the chorus.

I had almost made up my mind when I became aware that the corridor I had just entered was not empty as the previous ones had been. Two men were striding purposefully towards me. Even as I glanced over my shoulder, three men had appeared behind me. One of the men in front of me addressed me.

"M. le Fantome?" he asked in a voice that made it clear he already knew the answer. "Inspector Ganá. Come with us. There are a few matters we would like to discuss with you."


	62. Chapter SixtyTwo

**Chapter Sixty-Two**

**December 11****th**** 1895:**_ Marcella_

Even after I was finished washing myself and getting dressed, Signor Erik had not returned. Since I didn't possess a watch, I couldn't tell how much time had passed since he had gone, but it felt like an eternity. I told myself that perhaps I had done things too quickly. But then, I had done everything just as quickly as usual, and Signor Erik was always back by the time I was finished.

Of course, I was always fast to hide my modesty. The older girls in my home village had told me about men spying on girls as they washed themselves at the well, sometimes even sneaking out and doing horrible things with them. The girls had giggled about such stories and appeared excited rather than appalled, but I was determined that something like that would never happen to me.

Not that Signor Erik would ever attempt such an audacity. He was a decent man, always friendly and polite. He knocked before he entered my room and never touched me in a way that could be called discourteous.

With a little sigh, I sat down on the bed. I missed Signor Erik. He was such a wonderful man. At the moment, he was my whole world, now that my brothers and sisters were no longer with me. I missed them, too, but Signor Erik had promised me that I'd be allowed to visit them. Yet even he hadn't been able to tell me an exact time. It all depended on the schedule of the opera.

My thoughts drifted off to my voice lessons. They were the best hours of my life, but also the most exhausting. I had been singing for as long as I could remember, but I had never known there was so much to be learned about it. Signor Erik was a strict teacher. He was never content with the second-best when he thought I could do better. Yet he was kind, too, and not unfriendly. I was lucky to have him as my teacher, especially since he taught me for free.

But where was he now? I was sure that at least an hour had passed since he had left. Why did he make me wait that long? He had promised me that he'd be back soon, and he had always kept his promises.

Could something bad have happened to him? I supposed it was possible, but not very likely, since he hadn't planned to leave the opera. He always seemed so completely in control of everything. It was hard to imagine any misfortune that could have happened to him here.

Perhaps I should go looking for him. I knew where to find the room to which he had gone. He had once pointed it out to me in passing, asking me whether I'd like to take my meals there with the chorus girls. I had refused, of course. It was not as if I didn't want to have anything to do with the other girls, but the thought of having to eat with so many of them... I shuddered. Maybe they'd make fun of me or tease me for my poor French.

No, I really didn't want to go outside. But what if Signor Erik needed help? He had done so much for me, and I didn't even leave the room to search for him? What a despicable behaviour!

I got up from the bed. I had to do it. I had to go outside and ask people where he was. Everyone at the opera knew Signor Erik. Surely it wouldn't take long to find him, and then I'd be able to return to my room, and everything would be all right again.

Before I left the room, I went to the mirror over the dressing table and examined myself. Signor Erik had told me that I was pretty, so I supposed it was true. I ran a brush through my long hair. I wanted to look beautiful for him, to repay him for all the effort he took with me. I knew that men liked to be seen with pretty girls.

I took a deep breath, walked over to the door and opened it. No one was outside, which made it easier for me to go. I walked slowly, without a clear idea of where I was going to. I didn't know where other people were at this time of day. I usually had my voice lessons in the mornings, so I had never asked Signor Erik what the singers or musicians did then.

Well, if I just kept on walking, I'd surely meet someone sooner or later. I told myself that I should better start practicing what to say. It was not easy. In the last weeks, I had heard enough French to follow a normal conversation, as long as no one spoke too quickly. Expressing my thoughts in French, however, was much more difficult. I'd have to hope for people who'd listen closely and try to understand me.

Yet even after the words had formed into useful sentences in my head, I didn't find anyone to test them on. Where was everybody? I reached the room in which the chorus girls had breakfast, but no one was there. Half a dozen plates on the table, sprayed with crumbs, told me that at least some of the girls had been here, but where were they now?

After a moment's thinking, I decided to go to the stage. It wasn't difficult to find, since I had been there so often with Signor Erik. Besides, I didn't know where else to look. I had no idea what the chorus girls did when they were not practicing.

I made my way to the stage quickly. Again, I didn't meet anyone. Yet as I drew nearer to the stage, I knew I had made the right decision. I heard voices. Surely they belonged to the chorus girls.

As I reached the stage, I stopped behind a heavy velvet curtain. I did want to talk to the girls, but first, I had to find out whether they were in a good enough mood. I knew from my father what grave consequences trying to talk to someone in a bad mood could have.

"You're insane, Jeanette", one of the girls was just saying. "It is our morning off, and here we are, practicing."

"I didn't force you to come along, did I?" a second girl snapped. "This is our only chance to practice on our own, especially on the stage. And you heard what Mme. Giry said yesterday. We both have to improve the movements of our arms, or she'll make us stay behind after practice. Think about how embarrassing that would be."

I peered out from behind the curtain and watched the girls as they began to dance. It was two of them, one small with black hair, and the other taller with light brown hair. They looked so elegant as they danced. I couldn't understand why Mme. Giry had criticised the movements of their arms. They looked very graceful to me, like branches moving in the wind.

I wished I could dance like that. Signor Erik had offered to ask Mme. Giry about private lessons for me, but I had begged him not to. I was just a simple peasant girl. I'd never dance like that, and I didn't want to disappoint him.

The thought of Signor Erik reminded me what I was here to do. Still, I decided to continue watching the girls. I didn't want to interrupt them while they were practicing. Surely it would have made them angry.

After a little while, the taller girl stopped.

"I cannot possibly do any more," she declared, bending down to massage her thigh. "I'm so tired. All the celebrating yesterday... I don't know where you get the energy from, Jeanette."

The other girl, Jeanette, stopped as well.

"All right," she agreed. "That should be enough for today. But I do think Mme. Giry will see the difference straight away."

The girls wandered across the stage more slowly now, stretching and shaking their arms and legs. Yet even though they were moving away from me, I could still hear them. I knew from Signor Erik that it was because of the special acoustics of the stage. I just had to make sure not to look out when they walked into my direction again.

I allowed my attention to stray as the tall girl told Jeanette about a lovely young man she had met at the celebration. I knew such stories from the girls in my village, and they had never held much fascination for me. I only listened properly again when I heard the words ´Opera Ghost´.

"The Opera Ghost was at the celebration, too," Jeanette said, interrupting her friend's tale at last. "Did you see him, Marie?"

"Of course I did," the other girl replied. "He was there with that new singer he brought from Italy. What's her name again...? Mariella?"

"Marcella," Jeanette corrected her. "Yes, I saw her as well. She looked very pretty."

"Oh yes," Marie agreed. "But did you notice that she was wearing the same dress as Christine de Chagny?"

"It says a lot about a man, you know," Jeanette mused. "Dressing his present love in the same clothes as the last one..."

"Well, I doubt that Christine still lets him choose her clothes," Marie argued. "They haven't been together for years and years. I think it was just a coincidence. But what do you mean, his present love? Do you really think there's something between Marcella and the Opera Ghost?"

I leaned forward, eager not to miss a word. This conversation was getting more interesting by the minute. I'd have never imagined that the chorus girls would be talking about me.

"Well," Jeanette said slowly. "With the Opera Ghost, you can never know. But he _is _a man, after all, and men rarely do something just to be nice."

The two girls exchanged knowing looks.

"He wouldn't teach her if there wasn't something in it for him," Jeanette concluded.

"And you think it's love?" Marie asked breathlessly. "But she's not staying with him. She lives in that dressing room down the corridor from ours. Mme. Giry said so."

"She's not staying with him yet," Jeanette corrected her. "I bet she'll soon leave that dressing room and move into his lair in the cellars. You'll see..."

I didn't wait to hear what Marie had to say to it all. Even though I hadn't spoken to anyone, I knew what I had to do now. The conversation had given me an idea. The girl had said that Signor Erik lived in the cellars. What if he was there now? I had to go and look for him. I turned around and left the stage, sending a wordless thank you to the helpful chorus girls.


	63. Chapter SixtyThree

**Author's note:** Thanks for your continued support. I'll be in London for the next week. I have to check whether the new cast is as good as the old one.

**Chapter Sixty-Three**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

It was a sign of how well Meg knew me that she could guess what had happened from the fragments of sentences that I uttered in between sobs. As soon as she had understood it, she let go of me.

"Christine, you've got to pull yourself together," she said firmly, holding me at arm's length and looking at me. "For Erik's sake. It's not too late. If we go to the opera right now, we might still be able to warn him."

I nodded, searching my pockets for a handkerchief. Fortunately, I found one. After I had wiped my eyes and blown my nose, I felt marginally better than before.

"Let us go," I said.

We only made it as far as the front door. Two policemen were standing on either side, blocking the exit.

"Where are you going, Mesdames?" the one on the left asked in a business-like voice.

"Erm..." I made uncertainly.

It had not occurred to me that we'd have to explain ourselves to anyone. I could hardly tell those men that we were about to warn their prime suspect before their colleagues reached him.

"We..." I started again. Then I had a sudden inspiration. "We have to go and see Antoinette and Philippe, my older children. They'll have woken up by now and want to know what has happened. I've got to tell them about Clarille. They'll be so worried."

The story seemed acceptable enough, for the policemen nodded.

"I understand," the one on the left said slowly. "But the problem is that Inspector Ganá gave us strict orders to keep you in the house."

"Yes, one of you might be the next target," the second policeman added seriously. "We don't want to take any risks."

"But my other children could be abducted as well," I argued, giving my voice a slightly hysterical note. "Have you thought of that at all?"

Apparently they had not thought of it, for they exchanged worried glances. The man on the left rubbed his nose in a pensive way. Then he smiled.

"There's another coach waiting outside in the street," he told us. "We'll send it to fetch your children and bring them here. You don't have to worry, Madame."

I nodded. There was nothing left for me to say. On the contrary, the longer I thought about it as I watched the policeman make his way towards the gate, the more I liked his plan. What if someone did try to abduct Antoinette and Philippe? They'd be safer here with me than with old Mme. Marandette.

But then, how could I warn Erik? I looked at Meg, but she shrugged and gave me a glance that stated clearly, ´There's nothing we can do´.

Feeling rather helpless, I gave the remaining policeman a nod, turned around and walked back down the corridor. Meg followed me.

"Shall we go to the kitchen and have something to eat?" she suggested. "You must be hungry. You haven't eaten all day."

I waited with my reply until we were out of earshot of the policeman.

"What about Erik?" I hissed.

"I'm sorry, but I can't think of a way to contact him, now that we can't leave the house," she answered. "And even if there was one, we wouldn't reach him in time. The police will already be at the opera by now."

"What will they do with him?" I muttered.

"Question him, I suppose," Meg replied. "And once they know he's innocent, they'll let him go again."

I shook my head.

"They'll never believe he's innocent," I told her. "You didn't hear that Inspector and his assistant talk about him. They're sure that he's guilty, I know it."

I was on the verge of tears again. The slight throbbing in my head where it had hit the stairs was nothing compared to the ache in my heart. Erik had promised that he'd go looking for Clarille. I had been so hopeful. It was the kind of thing he was good at. And now he was being questioned by the police, while whoever had abducted my daughter was free. Besides...

I gripped Meg's arm.

"Meg," I whispered. "What if Erik thinks that it was _I_ who told the police about him?"

Meg looked at me.

"He wouldn't think that," she said, though without any real conviction.

I heaved a sigh. The situation was getting more difficult by the moment.

"Come," Meg said gently, freeing herself from my grip and taking my hand instead. "We'll go and eat something. Everything will be better once you've had a little food. You'll see."

I seriously doubted it, but I was too weak to argue. I let her pull me down the corridor to the kitchen.

The door stood open as we reached it. An extraordinary number of people were crammed into the room. Larisse and Meg's housekeeper were busy preparing lunch. The housekeeper was peeling potatoes at the sink, while Larisse stirred something in a pot. Four people were sitting at the small kitchen table: Jean, holding little Michel on his lap, and Gabriel and Marielle on either side of Jacqueline, who held both of them by the hand.

With the exception of the housekeeper, who continued peeling potatoes as if her life depended on it, everyone looked up as we entered the room.

"How was it?" Jean asked.

I merely shrugged. I was afraid that I'd burst into tears if I had to tell the whole story again.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Larisse asked kindly. "And something to eat, maybe? There's still cake left from breakfast."

"Lunch will be ready in an hour's time," the housekeeper informed me without looking up. It sounded as if she considered everyone who'd rather eat cake than her lunch to be quite insane.

"Tea would be nice," I replied, giving Larisse a weak smile. "But..." I could feel the expectant glances of Jean, Gabriel and Jacqueline on me, and I knew I had to tell them something. Still, I didn't feel comfortable talking in front of the housekeeper. I hardly knew anything about her and had no idea whether she was the kind of person who couldn't keep her silence.

Meg caught my glance and understood at once.

"Would you lay the table in the dining room?" she requested. "Just take whatever you need out of the cupboard in the dining room."

The housekeeper nodded curtly and left the room.

"Well done," Jean commented with a grin. "That cupboard has not been tidied in months. It will take her quite a while to find all the plates and cutlery."

He and Gabriel stood up to make room at the table for Meg and me. We sat down quickly. My heart gave a throb as I watched Michel crawl onto his mother's lap, while my own remained empty.

"They've gone to Erik for questioning," I said, to no one in particular.

Jacqueline gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. I knew how fond she was of Erik.

"But you don't think... you don't think M. Erik could have something to do with it, do you?" Larisse whispered, nearly spilling tea all over the table because she didn't manage to keep the tea pot steady enough to fill the cups. Jean had to come to her help.

"No," I replied flatly. "He has nothing to do with it. But the police think so."

"If Erik doesn't want to talk to them, he won't," Jacqueline said confidently. "He'll hide. They'll never find him."

I nodded, but Meg shook her head.

"He'd have to hide for a long time," she reasoned. "If the police want to talk to him, they'll come back again and again, especially seeing that he seems to be their only suspect so far. Think of all the time they'd waste. Time they could instead spend looking for Clarille. You know, perhaps it was not so bad that we didn't manage to warn Erik."

I wasn't sure whether she didn't only say it to comfort me, but it certainly had that effect. I realised that she was right.

"But he hates the police," I muttered.

"They'll have to let him go soon," Jean said consolingly. "They have to. He has done nothing wrong."

I sighed and stared down into my tea cup. Minute after minute passed in silence while we stirred our tea, occasionally taking a sip. The cake lay forgotten on a plate. None of us seemed to know what to say.

At last, Marielle looked up at me. I was shocked to see how pale she was. Her eyes were red and swollen, as though she had cried for hours.

"I am so sorry," she breathed, her voice thick with suppressed tears. "It's all my fault. If I hadn't left the room... What kind of a maid can't even take care of two sleeping children? I should be dismissed on the spot!"

"I have told you last night, and I am telling you again," Jean said firmly. "We will not dismiss you. You are a good maid. It was only natural that you went to see what had caused the noise in the other room. I would have done the same."

"That noise..." Gabriel said suddenly. "There is something odd about it. Don't you think it's very convenient that a cat happens to come into the house at exactly the right time?"

"But there really was a cat," Marielle argued, giving Gabriel a defiant glance. She seemed to think that he was accusing her. "A big brown one. When I came in, it looked at me and left the same way it had come in: straight through the open window and into the tree outside. I was meaning to talk to you about not leaving the window open when you go out..."

"We did not leave it open!" Meg exclaimed. "I went through the house before we left and made sure the windows were closed, in case there'd be snow that night."

Marielle stared at her.

"But... but..." she stammered. "If you didn't leave it open, who did?"

"That's something I'd like to know myself," a male voice said.

We turned around to face the door. There were Antoinette and Philippe, accompanied by Mme. Marandette. But there also was...

"Raoul!" I gasped.


	64. Chapter SixtyFour

**Chapter Sixty-Four**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

"What are you doing here?" I asked, staring at Raoul. I couldn't understand why he was here all of a sudden, when he didn't know anything about what had happened. How did he even know where I was?

"I didn't want to wait for you to come back and explain," he replied. "After you had left... well, it took a while for it to sink in, with Jacques and everything else, but then, I realised that something had to be very wrong for you to come to me in the middle of the night. So I went to your house, and there were two policemen just climbing out of a coach. Once they had understood who I was, they told me everything I needed to know. Oh, I'm so sorry, Christine..."

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. I inhaled his familiar scent, and for the first time in hours, I felt truly calm. It was so good to be embraced like this, so warm and comforting. I could have stood there all day, basking in the soothing presence of Raoul. He still had the ability to make me feel loved.

But there were other things to do and other people to greet. I let go of Raoul gently and saw my children standing there, both looking rather confused.

"Where is Clarille, Maman?" Antoinette asked, speaking as soon as she knew she had my attention. "What has happened to her? Who has taken her?"

Puzzled, I glanced at Mme. Marandette.

"I didn't tell them anything, dear," she answered my unspoken question. "I'd have never done so, not without your permission. But the police did, when they came to call. I'm sorry, Christine. I should have held them back, but I didn't know how."

"It was my fault as well," Raoul added. "The children overheard me talking to the policemen and started asking questions, too. I'd have sent them away, of course, but I assumed _they _already knew about it."

I couldn't help noticing the delicate stress Raoul put on ´they´.

"I know I should have told you sooner," I said in a low voice. "But..."

"It's quite all right," he told me gently. "I know it now. I understand."

"But I don't," Antoinette interjected, slightly angry. She wasn't used to being overlooked. "I don't understand anything. Tell me what has happened, Maman." She gazed at me imploringly.

I nodded, realising that she was right. I had to tell her, and Philippe as well, sooner or later. In any case, it would be better for them to hear my version of events before whatever the policemen had told them could sink in.

I took my children by the hand and led them over to the table, where Gabriel and Jacqueline hasted to make space for them. We sat down, and I began to speak. I started with what I had told Erik and Raoul at the opera and went on with the things that had followed that night. I told them about everything but a few details of the conversations... and the kisses I had shared with the men. Some things were too private to discuss even with my own children.

As I talked, I was aware that not only my children were listening avidly. Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breaths. To my surprise, I found that I didn't mind too much. There were more important things on my mind at the moment than worrying about what the others might be thinking about me.

When I stopped because I could think of nothing more to say, my throat felt very dry indeed. I reached for my cup and emptied the rest of my by now cold tea in one long gulp. My children were looking at me. Antoinette's mouth was hanging slightly open, and funnily, she was not speaking. Philippe's eyes were big and round and full of anxiety.

"What will they do with Clarille?" he asked in a whisper. "She must be so frightened..."

It hurt me to see my children that worried and anxious. They had not had much time to get used to the idea that Clarille was their sister, but they had accepted it surprisingly quickly. Philippe had been intrigued that he was no longer the youngest in the family. And as for Antoinette... well, I had once seen here trying to teach Clarille how to dance, standing in front of her bed and moving her arms and legs in different directions. Clarille seemed to have enjoyed it.

It occurred to me that I was not the only one who was sad about my little girl going missing. There were Antoinette and Philippe, Erik and Raoul, Meg and Jean, Jacqueline, Marielle and Gabriel... Clarille had been taken away from all of us. I wasn't sure whether that knowledge made me feel better or worse.

"The police will find her," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "The police always find people."

"I know who can find her!" Philippe told me excitedly, snapping his fingers. "Uncle Erik! We have to go to him at once!"

I let out a small sigh. I had conveniently forgotten to mention that part of the story.

"Philippe," I began. "Uncle Erik can't help us at the moment. He's not at the opera. He is being questioned by the police."

Philippe stared at me.

"Oh no," he breathed, his eyes filling with tears. "Poor Uncle Erik. Will they lock him away in the cellar and give him nothing to eat?"

I shook my head, secretly wondering where my son had heard such tales about the police. Probably from Erik himself. He had always despised the police. I patted Philippe's shoulder sympathetically.

"They won't treat him badly," I assured him. "And he'll be released in no time. You'll see. And then he'll be able to help us find Clarille."

Antoinette, who had been listening attentively, nodded, but Philippe didn't look convinced. Like his godfather, he was very sensitive towards other people's emotions. Apparently he had noticed that I didn't believe in my own words.

"It will be all right," I said gently. "We can help Uncle Erik best by thinking of him."

Philippe nodded glumly, but closed his eyes obediently.

Silence followed my words. I didn't know what the others did, but I divided my thoughts between Clarille and Erik, hoping and hoping that nothing bad would happen to either of them.

After a few minutes, the silence was broken by Michel. Just like Meg, he was very lively and didn't like it when things grew too quiet. Leaning across the table, he had snatched a spoon and banged it against his father's cup. The noise startled us all. Hastily, Jean pulled him back before he could break anything.

"You're right, Michel," he told his son. "We've had enough silence for the moment. Silence will help no one. We've got to think about what to do. We – "

The rest of his sentence was drowned as Michel, annoyed about being interrupted in his game, began to wail at the top of his lungs. While Jean bounced him up and down on his knees, which managed to calm him down a little, Meg suggested,

"Why don't we take the children up to the nursery before we talk about anything else? It would be boring for them anyway."

"Of course," Jacqueline agreed, stretching out her hands for Antoinette and Philippe.

"But I want to stay here," Antoinette argued. "I'm almost an adult. It won't be boring for me."

"I want to stay, too," Philippe assisted. "I want to help."

It was rare to see my children agree about anything. Still, I was determined to make them leave. There were certain things that they weren't old enough to hear. I didn't want them to be even more worried than they already were.

"You go with Jacqueline. As soon as there are news, I'll tell you," I said so firmly that not even Antoinette dared argue again. She always knew when I was serious.

They seized Jacqueline's hands and went out of the kitchen with her. Gabriel followed them.

"I think this young man is ready for a nap," Jean declared significantly when Marielle didn't make to go with them.

She hesitated.

"Are you quite sure that you want to leave him with me of all people?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes," Meg and Jean answered, almost at the same moment.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Meg added. "You won't even be alone. Jacqueline and Gabriel will be with you."

Still looking rather reluctant, Marielle took Michel into her arms and left the room.

"I'll go and tell Anne that we won't continue cooking for a while," Larisse announced. "I take it none of you wants to eat lunch anytime soon."

"Indeed," Jean said. "And make sure she doesn't come in here and disturb us. Tell her to... I don't know... to clean the wine cellar or something. That ought to keep her busy."

"I'm not sure she'll listen to me giving her orders," Larisse admitted. "But I'll try my best."

"May I leave as well?" a soft voice asked. "Truth to be told, I could do with sitting down for a while."

For a moment, I was surprised to see Mme. Marandette standing by the door. I had quite forgotten that she was there, too.

"Yes, yes, of course," I replied, feeling guilty that after all she had done for me, I hadn't as much as offered her a chair. "Why don't you go and join the others in the nursery? Larisse will show you the way."

"You can go, too," Raoul said.

For a wild moment, I thought he was talking to me. Then I followed his gaze to the door and froze. Now that Mme. Marandette had moved aside, I saw that someone else was standing there. A pretty young girl with red hair and equally red eyes.

"What is _she_ doing here?" I hissed at Raoul.

"She has just lost Jacques," he reminded me. "Was I supposed to leave her at home all alone?"

"Of course not," I mumbled. "Yes, you can go with them," I addressed Cecile, trying my best to act friendly.

The girl nodded and left with the other two women.

Now only Meg, Jean, Raoul and I were there. The kitchen, which had been so crowded before, felt very large and empty now. We gazed at each other without speaking. Suddenly, no one seemed to know what to say.


	65. Chapter SixtyFive

**Chapter Sixty-Five**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Meg_

"So... what are we going to do now?" Raoul asked after a minute's silence.

"Before you arrived, we agreed that someone must have let the cat into the other room on purpose, to lure Marielle out of the nursery," Jean informed him. None of us knew how much Raoul had actually heard, standing at the door, but it was like Jean to tell him all he needed to know. "We should think about who could have done it and why. If we work something out, we can tell the police about it."

"I thought why was clear," I said. "They wanted to steal Clarille."

"Yes, but why would someone do that?" Jean challenged.

"There was something in the paper a few weeks ago," I muttered, trying to remember it all. "A man stole a child in order to get money from the parents. He was seen and arrested before the parents even knew about it, though, and the child was returned safely."

Settling down on one of the empty chairs, I reached across the table and patted Christine's arm in a reassuring way. She gave me a grateful little smile, but didn't speak. I was starting to get worried about her. She looked so pale, and her hands were shaking. I had thought she was better when Raoul had arrived, but the change had only been momentarily.

"But no one demanded money from us, did they, Christine?" Raoul said, looking at her.

She shook her head mutely.

"Perhaps it will take a little longer," Jean suggested. "A messenger or a letter could have come to your house while you're here."

Looking alarmed, Raoul glanced at the door, as if contemplating to leave.

I shook my head.

"You're forgetting something, dear," I told Jean gently. "When Clarille was taken, no one knew she was the child of Christine and... erm, Erik or Raoul. They'd have thought she was ours. _We_ should have received a letter if there was one, but nothing has arrived here. No, I don't think she was taken because someone wanted money. If that was true, why didn't they take Michel as well? Surely two children would have meant twice the amount of money..."

I shuddered, unable to go on. I couldn't bear the thought that my little Michel could have been taken as well. It was too horrible to contemplate. Yes, I missed Clarille dearly. She was almost like my own child, but... only almost. Michel _was_ my child. I had to protect him.

For a moment, I had the strong urge to race upstairs, just to make sure that my son was all right. My wish seemed to be reflected on my face, for Jean put a hand on my shoulder and shook his head. I gave him a slightly sheepish smile. I knew what he meant. We at least had to remain calm, or no one would. Besides, I knew that Michel was safe with Marielle, Jacqueline and all the others.

"So," I continued my thought, trying to make up for my moment of weakness by sounding very matter-of-fact. "Why should someone take Clarille, but leave Michel behind?"

"There could be many reasons," Jean replied. "Perhaps whoever abducted her wanted a girl, not a boy. Or they simply took the first child they saw. Perhaps Michel woke up, and they were afraid he'd scream if they took him out of his bed. Or they just thought Clarille was prettier. Who knows how the minds of such criminals work?"

"Yes... who knows?" Raoul muttered slowly. "Let us concentrate on what we do know. We know that someone took Clarille, but not Michel. We know that that someone made a clever plan how to get her. That someone must have been good at picking locks, too. If he hadn't been, he wouldn't have come in at all. All that leads to only one man," he finished, the triumphant note in his voice unmistakable.

Christine glared at him. She had been so quiet all the time that it made Jean and me jump to hear her shouting all of a sudden.

"II know what you think but it wasn't Erik!" she yelled. "It can't have been!"

For a moment, Raoul looked taken aback. Then he began to shout as well.

"And why not?" he asked. "All the evidence points that way... doesn't it?"

He glanced at Jean and me, as if searching for support. My husband and I exchanged a meaningful look and shrugged, knowing that every word we said would have been wrong. Yet without us meaning to do so, our silence seemed to encourage Christine.

"You see?" she yelled. "No one agrees with you. We all trust Erik. Only you don't trust him – not because of any so-called evidence, but simply because you don't like him!"

"I wonder why that might be," Raoul said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It could be because he tried to murder me. Or because he slept with my wife on the only occasion when I did try to trust him. Or maybe because he has been in love with said wife for decades and is only waiting for a chance to be with her. And Clarille would be ideal! By abducting her, he could force you to come back to him! Have you ever thought of that?"

"No, I haven't," Christine gave back coldly. "It's a ridiculous idea! Erik doesn't have to resort to such methods to get me back. He just has to kiss me, like he did in the coach."

Raoul's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. For a moment, Christine appeared to be uncertain as to what she had done and how she was supposed to go on, but she went on all the same.

"Yes, he kissed me," she told Raoul. "Right after we had left you to comfort poor little Cecile. And do you want to know something? The kiss was good. Very good."

"And that's the sole reason why you trust him?" Raoul breathed. His face was pale, but he seemed to have recovered enough to speak. "You trust him because he kissed you? But that's madness, Christine... utter madness... don't you see?"

"All I see is a man who is jealous of Erik and always has been," Christine said firmly. "It's getting ridiculous, Raoul, a grown-up man behaving like an adolescent boy."

"Do you know what's truly ridiculous?" Raoul hissed. "A woman who can never... _never_... make up her mind! I thought you had become a little more mature in the last years, but obviously, I was wrong! You just don't understand that you can't behave like that, kissing one man here and another one there... pretending your kisses mean something, when in truth they don't..."

He paused to take a breath. Almost at the same time, Jean and I seized our chance to speak at last.

"Now, really..." I said.

"Can't we all...?" Jean said.

It had no effect whatsoever. Raoul had taken his breath and simply shouted over us.

"How many other men have you been kissing?" he yelled. "You told me that Clarille is either Erik's daughter or mine, but how can I be certain that there haven't been a dozen other men you've been with? How can you expect me to trust you ever again?"

Christine let out a shrill laugh.

"I don't expect anything from you," she gave back. "How dare you pass judgement on me? Look at you! You've already got a new girl yourself! How long did it take you to persuade her to share your bed? One day? Two?"

At that point, I couldn't bear listening to them for another moment. I slammed my fists onto the table, making the tea cups and spoons rattle.

"Stop!" I cried. "Stop!"

Astonished, Christine and Raoul turned to stare at me.

"I've had enough of you," I went on. "This is not about either of you. It's about Clarille. Do you think you can help her by yelling at each other? Well, I don't. You can either stop your argument now and start thinking about what to do, or Jean and I will leave this instant."

For a moment, there was silence. I truly thought it had worked. It was a simple strategy I had often watched my mother use when the chorus girls argued about something. Since they all wanted to learn how to dance, they had always stopped, and my mother had never really left the stage.

My fleeting hope was shattered after a moment.

"This is all your fault!" Christine and Raoul yelled, glaring at each other.

I didn't waste my breath on another attempt to achieve a truce. I merely got up, seized Jean's hand and led him outside, closing the door firmly behind us. All the way down the corridor, we could still hear angry voices.


	66. Chapter SixtySix

**Chapter Sixty-Six**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Meg_

After a brief discussion, Jean and I decided to retire to the library. We could have gone to the nursery, of course, but neither of us liked the idea of talking about Clarille's fate in front of the other children. Antoinette and Philippe were worried enough as it was. I was glad that our Michel was too young to understand what had happened. He was probably asleep by now.

The moment the door of the library had closed behind us, Jean leaned down and gave me a loving kiss. I was a little surprised, but returned it eagerly.

"Promise me we'll never argue like Christine and Raoul down there," he said when it was over. His hand was in my hair, and he was smiling down at me.

"But dear... we do argue," I told him hesitantly. "And quite often, too. Don't you remember? Only the day before yesterday, we argued about the meaning of that poem I read to you, and you said..."

"We don't argue," Jean disagreed, shaking his head vigorously. "Not in the way they do, anyway. Not with all that hatred. I saw it in their eyes, Meg. It was as if they didn't love each other at all." He looked almost frightened.

I thought about his words and found them to be true. Our arguments were not at all like the one we had just witnessed in the kitchen. Jean and I were both very lively people and talked about a lot of things. It was only natural that we argued every now and then, for we often didn't have the same opinion. Yet even during our fiercest discussions, I knew that Jean loved me, and he knew that I loved him.

"You're right," I said slowly. "They once loved each other very much, but I truly don't know whether they still do. So much has happened..."

"Do you..." Jean began, then paused to clear his throat before he went on. "Do you really think that Christine... that she has been with other men?"

"No," I replied at once, very firmly. There were many things about Christine's behaviour that I failed to understand these days, but I knew that much about her. "She is not that kind of woman. She has always been a little shy, and she has grown even more so over the last years. She hardly ever leaves the house without the children. No, she can't have been with other men. I'm sure Raoul doesn't believe what he said either. He only wanted to hurt Christine because she had hurt him."

"Well, I'd have been hurt, too, if you told me that you had kissed another man," Jean reasoned, seizing the chance to give me another kiss. "That was a horrible thing to say, just like that. I wonder whether it has really happened. Did the Phantom and she really kiss?"

He sounded so excited that I smiled to myself. Jean always grew happy when he talked about Erik. If anything, his enthusiasm had increased since he had met him. Jean still thought that Erik was mysterious and fascinating. It was as if he had met a character from his favourite novel. That was why he still tended to call him ´Phantom´, rather than ´Erik´, claiming that it sounded much more mysterious.

"You talk as though you'd have liked to kiss him as well," I remarked teasingly. "But yes, it did happen. Christine told me about it before she mentioned it to Raoul."

"So... does she love the Phantom then?" Jean asked. "Or Raoul?"

While we had been talking, we had settled down on our favourite sofa. As I thought about his answer now, I let my gaze wander over the rows and rows of books, wondering whether one of them contained problems similar to ours and maybe even a solution to them. There was no time to search for it, that much was certain.

"I don't know," I replied eventually.

Jean frowned.

"But you're her best friend," he reminded me. "Christine comes here so often, and you talk for hours and hours..."

"We do," I agreed. "We talk about our children and about children in general, about my mother's health, sometimes about a book we've read. But we don't talk about who she loves. Christine always avoids such topics. I can't blame her. I think she doesn't know it herself. In a way, she loves both men. A combination of them would be ideal for her."

"Well, she can't have that," Jean stated. "And one thing is certain: If she and Raoul go on fighting like that, there'll be little chance of them being happy together again."

I nodded.

For a few moments, there was silence as we both listened, straining our ears to catch any sound from downstairs. The kitchen was too far away from the library to hear much, especially with both doors closed, and yet I was sure that they were still arguing. If one of them had left the room, we'd have heard the door slam shut.

"They'll do so much damage to each other," I said slowly. "And it's all for nothing. They don't even mean it. It's just because they're both anxious about Clarille. Do you remember that day last spring, when Michel had a fever, and we had that dreadful argument about who had left the window open? Fighting didn't help Michel back then, and it won't help Clarille now."

"But we're not doing anything to help her either," Jean told me seriously. "We're only sitting here, talking about who Christine loves."

"You're right," I said in alarm. "We've got to think about Clarille."

"Yes," Jean agreed. "And I'd say, we've got to think about who'd want to hurt us. There can be no other reason for all this happening, can there, not when no one knew that Clarille is Christine's daughter..."

"I suppose not," I replied. "Have you recently made anyone angry? At work, maybe?"

The question sounded ridiculous, even as I uttered it. My husband was one of the friendliest people I knew. I had never met anyone who didn't like him. I was not surprised when he shook his head.

"What about you?" he asked. "Is there anyone you can think of who'd have a reason to do something that terrible to you?"

Now it was my turn to shake my head. I supposed I had made quite a few girls envious when I had still been the prima ballerina at the opera, but I had had my last performance years ago. I had been forced to stop dancing just a few weeks after I had found out that I had been with child, for I had felt tired and dizzy most of the time. I couldn't think of a kind of envy that would last that long, especially since no one knew whether I'd ever return to the stage.

Just as I had told Jean about that conclusion, a door was opened and closed downstairs. For a moment, I was sure that Christine and Raoul had stopped arguing at last. Then a man's voice rang through the house, loud and clear.

"Mme. Tavoire!" he called. "Mme. Tavoire! A letter for you!"

A letter! Jean and I stared at each other in alarm. I knew he was thinking what I was thinking. Had our suspicions been right after all? Did someone demand money from us?

We jumped up from the sofa and ran downstairs as quickly as we could. One of the policemen who had held Christine and me back before was standing there, brandishing a letter. He seemed to be thinking along the same lines as we did, for he asked,

"Are you expecting any letters, Madame?"

I shook my head. My heart was beating wildly in my chest. I took one glance at my name on the envelope... and let out a sigh of relief. I'd have recognised that handwriting anywhere.

"It's from my mother," I said.

"Oh," the policeman made, sounding rather disappointed. "That's all right then."

He handed me the letter and went back to the entrance door, probably to wait for something more interesting to happen.

"I expect she wants to know whether anything has happened," I told Jean. "She so wanted to stay here and help us, but that meeting with the managers couldn't be postponed. It's always held on the day after such a performance, to discuss how the chorus girls have developed. It seems to be going on longer than usual this year, and ..."

Jean took the letter out of my hand.

"As interesting as all that is, I would like to know what your mother actually writes," he said, a slightly teasing note in his voice.

He opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. As he read it quickly, a series of emotions flitted across his face, each gone before I could interpret it properly.

"The Phantom is all right," he told me at last. "He's already back at the opera."

"That's good," I said, beaming. Then I noticed that Jean was not smiling. "Isn't it?" I added uncertainly.

"Oh, yes, yes," he muttered vaguely. "But it's that girl, that Marcella. Your mother asks whether she might have turned up here. It seems that the Phantom came back to the opera and searched for her everywhere, but couldn't find her. She's gone."


	67. Chapter SixtySeven

**Chapter Sixty-Seven**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Meg_

"Gone?"

Hearing a voice behind me, I spun around and saw Christine and Raoul hurrying down the corridor towards us. Of course, I thought. The policeman had shouted so loudly that they had heard it even over their argument. I didn't doubt that they had still been arguing. Their faces were still flushed with anger.

"Gone?" Christine repeated as she came to a halt next to me. "Who's gone? Michel? Oh no! Did they take him, too?"

"No, no," I hastened to assure her, for she looked truly upset. "It's nothing like that. No other child has vanished. It's Marcella who is gone."

The expression on Christine's face changed from upset to puzzled.

"But how are we supposed to know where she is?" she asked. "We hardly know her at all."

"Who is that letter from, anyway?" Raoul wanted to know, leaning closer to see it for himself.

"It's from my mother," I informed him.

I hesitated. I knew that I had to tell them about Erik's return, but I wasn't sure how to do it. It was clear that Christine would be pleased, whereas Raoul would be... less pleased. It was hard to know how to present such news. In the end, I decided to just tell them and let them deal with it in whichever way they wanted.

"She writes that Erik has been released," I said. "He's back at the opera."

Christine reacted almost like I had reacted just a few minutes before.

"Wonderful," she breathed, beaming.

"Yes..." Raoul muttered, looking as though he suddenly had a bad toothache. "Wonderful..."

Oblivious to Raoul's less than enthusiastic remark, Christine asked,

"When exactly was he released? What did the police do with him? Was he treated well?"

"I don't know," I replied truthfully. By now, I had read the letter myself. "It doesn't say here."

Christine's face fell.

"But why not?" she whispered. "Why did your mother send you that letter, if not to tell you about Erik?"

"Well, she wrote to inform us about Marcella's disappearance," I reminded her.

"Oh," Christine made. The news about Erik seemed to have made her forget anything else for a few moments. She didn't look very happy anymore. "But none of us has seen her since last night," she said. "And why should she have come here? Does she even know where you live?"

I shrugged.

"I don't think so," I replied. "Erik could have told her, of course, but why should he have done so? We scarcely know Marcella. Besides, I thought she was so shy that she didn't leave the opera without him anyway."

"Do you think that someone might have abducted her, too?" Raoul asked. "Oh, this is such a nightmare! And it seems to be getting worse by the minute!"

"Do you feel sorry for Marcella?" Christine asked, the expression on her face rather unpleasant as she rounded on him. "Wouldn't you like to be the one to find her, to comfort her, to hold her in your arms?"

"How dare – ?" Raoul began, but Jean stopped him.

"No, no, no," he said firmly. "You will not start arguing again. You will behave yourselves, or you can leave. There's the door." He pointed at it.

Christine at least knew that it was an empty threat, since the policeman wouldn't have allowed anyone to leave the house, but it still worked. Christine and Raoul seemed impressed that Jean, who always was so gentle and friendly, could become that angry. I was rather impressed myself. I gave Jean's hand a brief squeeze to show him that he had done well.

"So, did your mother write to tell us that we are supposed to look for Marcella as well now?" Raoul asked, obviously determined to make up for their brief outburst by appearing very interested in the subject.

"I don't think so," Jean replied. "Meg's mother only told us about it in case Marcella had come here. And anyway, given what little progress we've made in our attempt to find Clarille, I doubt we'd do much better with Marcella."

He and I exchanged a glance. I knew that he was feeling just as guilty as I did. Judging by the way they stared at the floor, it was the same for Christine and Raoul.

"Well, at least they've released Erik," Christine said at last. "That is something good."

We all nodded, Raoul a little reluctantly.

"But he won't come here and help us, will he?" she added sadly. "Not if Marcella is missing as well..."

"It doesn't say whether he'll come," I told her, gesturing at the letter. "But I don't think he will. My mother says that he has gone out to look for Marcella in the streets. He seems to be very worried."

I watched my friend closely during the last words, but she merely nodded.

"I understand," she muttered. She sounded like it, too. There was no bitterness in her voice, no resentment towards Marcella. Looking at her, I saw a tear glide down her cheek. "I know that he has to search for her," she said softly, to no one in particular. "She's all alone in Paris. She needs someone... It's just... we need him, too..."

She began to cry in earnest now, big tears rolling down her face, dyeing the collar of her dress a deeper shade of pink. I stepped forwards and embraced her.

"Is this my punishment?" she whispered, her voice barely audible through the tears. "My punishment because I was not honest about Clarille from the start? If only I had told everyone about her! And now it's too late... I'll never see her again... too late..."

Her breathing became shallow and much too fast. The next moment, she grew limp in my arms. She had fainted.

"Help me!" I muttered, staggering under the unexpected weight.

Jean and Raoul seized Christine by the shoulders and held her in an upright position.

"What happened?" the policeman called, sprinting towards us, the other one just behind him. They seemed to have been deep in conversation and had only just caught up with what had been going on.

"Nothing," I told them quickly. "It's all just a little too much for her. The nerves, you know. We'll take her somewhere to lie down."

The policemen nodded and went back to the door. It was clear that they were relieved that they didn't have to deal with it. I couldn't help wishing that the men who were in charge of the search for Clarille were a little more capable of handling difficult situations.

Jean and Raoul carried Christine down the corridor and into the sitting room. I walked in front of them and opened the door. They placed her on the sofa gently.

"I must have a bottle of smelling salt somewhere here," I muttered. "If only I knew where..."

"Couldn't we just leave her in peace for a while?" Raoul suggested. "She looks... happy."

He was right. The expression on Christine's face was completely relaxed. She looked as if she had merely fallen asleep.

Raoul looked down at her.

"She was right, you know," he said quietly. "It _is_ all my fault. I shouldn't have argued with her. I noticed how agitated she was, and I didn't do anything to stop her. And now..."

The expression on his face was of such tenderness that it made my heart ache to look at it. I hadn't been sure about his feelings for Christine before, but I was sure now. It was obvious that he still loved her. I only wished Christine could have seen it, too.

Raoul leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead in a soft kiss.

"Do you have a blanket here?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse. "I don't want her to be uncomfortable."

Jean fetched a woollen blanket from an armchair, and Raoul covered Christine with it. She was breathing slowly and deeply.

Jean and I looked at each other.

"Maybe we should leave you –"

I never finished my sentence, for in that moment, the door burst open and Larisse came inside, her hair flying around her and her skirt billowing.

"Mme. de Chagny!" she called, her voice shrill. "Mme. de Chagny! Come, quick!"

She stopped dead as she spotted Christine lying on the sofa.

"She fainted," I explained before she could even ask. "What has happened, Larisse? Why are you coming in here like that?" I secretly wondered whether there was more bad news. How many more worries would we have to endure?

"It's Anne!" Larisse muttered, a hand pressed to her chest as she gasped for air. "She says... she says she has found Clarille!"


	68. Chapter SixtyEight

**Chapter Sixty-Eight**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

"What?"

"Where?"

"How?"

The questions poured out of my mouth before I could think about them. They echoed through the room, mingling with Meg's and Jean's equally confused questions. Larisse appeared to be unable to understand, let alone answer, any of them.

"I don't know exactly what happened," she finally told us, after we had calmed down enough to listen. "I was in the dining room, and then Anne came inside, carrying Clarille. I recognised her at once, of course. I didn't stay to ask where she had found her. I went to look for you straight away."

"You did well," Meg assured her. "We'll be able to ask her ourselves. I'll go and fetch Clarille, and you stay her. Jean, if you could search for the smelling salt? Then we can wake up Christine as soon as I get back."

"Why don't we wake her first?" Jean suggested. "I'm sure it won't take long to find the smelling salt. I saw it only the other day."

"No," Meg gave back hastily. "I want to have a look at Clarille first. What if she is... not well?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as she spoke. I shivered. What if the little girl – Christine's daughter, and maybe mine as well – was indeed not well? What if she was...?

I glanced at Larisse for reassurance, but she merely shrugged, looking just as anxious as I felt.

"I'm not sure if the little one is fine, Monsieur," she explained. "I didn't have a proper look at her. I wanted to alert you as quickly as possible."

"We won't wake up Christine until we've made sure that the child has not been harmed," I decided. "I'll come with you, Meg."

She nodded, and we left the room, Larisse leading the way. We didn't run, but there was a certain urgency to our steps.

Larisse led us to the dining room. The door stood ajar, and even from the outside, I could hear the content sounds of a little child. I felt slightly better at once. At least she was healthy enough to make sounds.

As I pushed open the door, I saw them: an elderly woman, holding a little girl in her arms, wrapped in a white blanket. The housekeeper was speaking to her in a soft voice.

"Your Maman will be here soon," she said. "You're a good girl, aren't you? Yes, you are. Such a good little girl..."

She broke off as we entered the room. I had seen the woman a few times before, but I barely recognised her. She was smiling gently, and the smile lit up her whole face. She looked younger than usual, prettier and much more content.

"There you are," she said, in the same soft voice, as not to startle Clarille. "Oh, where is Mme. de Chagny?"

"She's not feeling well," Meg explained.

"I'm sure she'll feel much better once she's got her little girl back," the housekeeper remarked. "She's such a sweet thing. Do you want to take her?"

Meg shook her head.

"I think you should do it," she said, smiling invitingly.

It took me a few moments to realise that she was speaking to me.

"Oh..." I made. "Yes... yes, of course."

I took the child out of the housekeeper's arms, feeling rather awkward. It had been years since the last time I had held such a small child. I had never been around much when Antoinette and Philippe had been her age. Still, I noticed the striking resemblance between the child in my arms and my oldest daughter. Both were the image of their mother.

I felt my heart make a little leap in my chest. It was impossible to look at such a sweet little girl and not be merry. A little voice in my head was quick to point out that I still didn't know whether she was my child, but I refused to listen to it. Clarille was here, and she was safe. That was all that mattered.

"How did you find her?" I heard Meg ask and hastened to listen.

"Well, I was down in the cellar, cleaning, as you had told me to do," the housekeeper replied, a faint note of resentment in her voice. "It was a lot of work, and it took me a long time to make any progress at all. After a while, I sat down on a box to rest. It was then that I heard a noise coming from a corner. It could have been there before, but I was too busy to notice. I thought another cat had come in, so I went to look where it was. But there was no cat. It was that little child, lying next to the shelves in which M. Tavoire keeps his wine."

"She was lying on the floor, just like that?" Meg wanted to know. "Wasn't she very cold?"

"Oh no," the housekeeper answered. "I wrapped her up nice and warm the moment I came back here. I'm sorry, but there wasn't anything else I could have used."

She gestured at the child, and I noticed that what I had taken to be a crisp white blanket around Clarille's body was actually a table cloth.

"You did very well," Meg said.

The housekeeper looked relieved.

"She wasn't very cold before, either," she told us. "She had that disgusting thing wrapped around her. Of course, I removed it as soon as I could." With a little shudder, she pointed at a filthy grey blanket in a corner of the room. It seemed that the mere sight of it made her fear for the cleanliness of the house.

"Does it come from your household?" I asked Meg.

She shook her head, while the housekeeper flinched at the idea.

"Definitely not," Meg replied. "Not even the blankets Gabriel uses for the horses are that dirty."

I nodded slowly. So the person who had taken Clarille had brought a blanket with them. This struck me as peculiar. But then, it wasn't the only peculiar thing about the whole incident.

"Why would someone abduct a child, only to take it to the cellar of the same house and leave it there?" muttered Meg, who had evidently been thinking about the same subject.

"I don't know," I answered, thinking hard. "Maybe... maybe they heard a noise in the street and thought you were coming back already. So they didn't dare take Clarille with her for fear of being seen and left her behind."

"You've never been to our cellar," Meg remarked. "It's not as easy to get into as in your old house. There is an access from the garden, yes, but the door is very heavy and has not been opened in years. If they had truly thought they heard us coming, they wouldn't have taken the time to force that door open. They'd have simply left Clarille in the garden. No, I think she was put in that cellar for a reason."

Our discussion was interrupted by Clarille, who sneezed loudly.

"We should call for a doctor," Meg decided. "Christine would never forgive us if we overlooked an illness, even if it's only a cold."

I nodded, peering down at Clarille anxiously. She didn't look ill to me, but I agreed that we couldn't be cautious enough.

"I'll send for the doctor," Larisse said.

"Very good," Meg gave back. "And while you're at it, tell the policemen that Clarille has been found. I expect they'll want to have a look at her, too."

Larisse nodded and left the room, accompanied by the housekeeper, who, now that she didn't hold the child anymore, looked just as unfriendly as ever.

I glanced down at the child.

"She's so beautiful," I breathed, beaming at her. "Just like Christine."

Clarille looked up at me. To me, it seemed that she wanted to know who that strange man holding her was.

"I'm your Papa," I told her softly. "Well, I might be..."

Clarille's reaction was not as positive as I had hoped. She began to struggle against my grip.

I turned to Meg.

"Doesn't she like me?" I asked anxiously.

Meg gave a little laugh.

"I'm sure she does," she replied. "But she doesn't like being made to hold still in someone's arms all the time. She's not that little anymore. She wants to move."

"Oh, I see," I said hastily. "Do we want to take her to Christine then? We can put her on the floor there, and she can crawl around a little."

Meg nodded.

"Don't worry, little one," I muttered. "We'll take you to Maman."

"Maman," Clarille said suddenly.

I hadn't known that she could speak, so it came as quite the surprise to me. I wondered whether she said Papa as well, and if yes, who she said it to. I pushed the question to the back of my mind, to ask Christine later. Much later.

I made a step towards the door, but stopped again. Something was wrong with my foot. I glanced down at it.

"Oh, my shoelace is open," I told Meg. "Could you take Clarille?"

"Sure," Meg replied, taking the squirming child out of my arms. "You're an impatient little Madame," she remarked gently.

"You don't have to wait for me," I said. "I'll catch up with you in a minute."

Meg nodded, and they left.

It only took me a moment to fix my shoelace, but I didn't follow them immediately. For some reason, I felt drawn to the shabby old blanket still lying in the corner. Surely it couldn't hurt to have a look at it.

As I picked up the filthy material, a crumpled piece of paper fell out of it. It looked as if it had been torn out of a newspaper. I smoothed it out and saw that the paper was covered in large, irregular letters.

_Christine de Chagny. Next time, it'll be one of your children. And we won't give it back. You'll never feel safe again. You'll pay for what you did to us._


	69. Chapter SixtyNine

**Chapter Sixty-Nine**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

"Christine? Christine?"

I heard the voice as though from very far away. Who was calling me? And what smelt so peculiar?

I opened my eyes slowly, reluctantly. I had just had such a nice dream. I had seen Clarille, sleeping safely in her bed. And now I was being dragged back into a world in which I didn't know where my daughter was or whether I'd ever see her again. Was it so surprising that I preferred dreaming?

Only gradually did I become aware of my surroundings. I was lying somewhere rather comfortable, under a soft blanket. A man's face was peering down at me. It was Jean. In his hand, he held a small bottle, which emanated that peculiar smell.

"She's waking up," he called over his shoulder.

The next moment, two more people leaned over me, their faces wearing identical expressions of relief. Meg and Raoul.

"How are you feeling?" Meg asked.

"Fine," I replied, for it was clearly the answer they were keen to hear. In truth, however, I didn't feel fine at all. The more I woke up, the more I recalled of what had happened. Erik, our one last hope, would not come here. He would not help us find Clarille. I would have liked to fall asleep again. What was the point of waking up, if all I could think of was misery?

"You still look very pale," Meg remarked. For some reason, she was smiling as she said it. I had seen that smile many times before. It meant that Meg knew something I didn't. "But you'll feel much better in a moment," she went on. "Come, sit up."

I struggled to do as she told me. The world began to spin before my eyes as I moved, but once I was sitting still, the dizzy feeling vanished.

The sight that met my eyes made my heart throb almost painfully. I blinked, not sure whether I could trust my eyes. Maybe I hadn't really woken up. Maybe this was just another dream. But it couldn't be a dream. I felt wide-awake, more awake than I had felt in a long time. There, between Meg's and Raoul's beaming faces, was Clarille. My little girl, smiling at me as if nothing had happened.

"Maman," she said in her sweet voice, stretching out her arms to me. "Maman!"

"Clarille," I breathed. "Oh, Clarille, my little darling, you've come back to me..."

I lifted her out of Meg's arms gently and pressed her against me. Clarille smelled strange, almost a little mouldy, but her sweet smell was still underneath it. I inhaled deeply, wishing to understand the miracle with all my senses. No, it was not a dream. It was much better.

After the first wave of bliss had passed, however, I felt more and more anxious. I had got my daughter back, yes, but I had no idea what dreadful things she might have been through.

"What has happened to her?" I asked, holding her tight.

"Meg's housekeeper found her," Raoul told me. His voice sounded slightly hoarse, as if he were coming down with a cold.

I patted the sofa next to me, and he sat down, gazing at me. I felt a slight flush creep up my cheeks.

"Go on, tell her," Jean said encouragingly.

"What? Oh, yes, yes," Raoul muttered. "Well, she found her shortly after you had passed out. Clarille seems to have been hidden in the cellar by whoever abducted her. The housekeeper cleaned there and found her."

"In the cellar?" I repeated, shocked. It was cold in the cellar, and Clarille was only wearing a nightdress. Besides, there were many dangerous things in the cellar, sharp objects, maybe even rats. All kinds of things could have happened to her. At once, I removed the white sheet wrapped around her body and began to examine her.

"Christine, it's all right," Raoul said gently. "We've already called for a doctor. He'll make sure that she has not been injured."

He put a hand on my arm to make me stop.

"Thank you," I whispered. "You, too, Meg and Jean. Thank you for... for everything. You brought my daughter back to me. Without you, I don't know – "

"It was our pleasure," Jean said kindly.

"You look much better already," Meg commented with a smile. "But you must still be exhausted. Would you like to rest a little? We could take Clarille upstairs to the nursery. There'll be many things for her to play with, and her brother and sister, too. Besides... I think she has to be changed."

"You're right," I agreed, sniffing the air around my daughter critically. "But I'm not tired. I'll take Clarille to the nursery myself." I couldn't bear the thought of being separated from her, even for a moment.

"We can all go," Raoul suggested. "We can tell the others that they don't have to worry anymore. I'm sure they'll be just as happy as we are."

I managed to get up from the sofa without help, even though I was still holding Clarille. The world had stopped spinning for good, and I felt quite steady on my feet.

Together, we made our way out of the door and down the corridor. It were happy moments. We were all talking, about Clarille and to Clarille. We agreed that it was a miracle that she had returned to us. It occurred to me that I still didn't know how exactly she had reappeared, but at the moment, it didn't seem very important. Someone would doubtlessly tell me sooner or later.

We came as far as halfway down the corridor before the policeman who had stood at the entrance door came running towards us. When he saw us, he slowed down, apparently trying to appear more dignified – an impression that was ruined by his flushed cheeks and the excited trembling of his voice when he spoke.

"é, the cook, has informed me that the missing child has been found," he said. "Is that correct?"

The answer was so obvious that I suppressed a laugh only with difficulty.

"Yes," I replied, indicating Clarille with a nod. "Here she is."

"Are you quite certain that this is the missing child?" the policeman asked.

I shook my head in disbelief. Surely that man didn't have any children of his own, or he wouldn't have asked such questions.

"Of course I am sure," I told him.

"I can assure you that my friend is perfectly capable of recognising her own daughter," Meg assisted me. "So am I, by the way. I recognised Clarille at once when Anne, our housekeeper, showed her to us. After all, Clarille grew up with my son." She said it in exactly the right voice – the same voice, in fact, that she had used for all-too-persistent admirers in her days as dancer.

The policeman gulped. For a moment, he seemed lost for words. Then he said,

"Yes, yes... I know that you saw the child first, Mme. Tavoire. Mme. Gardé told me so."

Was I imagining it, or did he really throw me a disapproving glance as he said it?

"Well, Christine could hardly have fetched her child herself," Meg remarked. "She had passed out... as you very well know, since you were present when it happened."

"Of course," the policeman muttered. "So you fetched the child with M. de Chagny instead. Why did you do that?"

"It is possible that I am the father," Raoul replied defiantly. "I daresay that I had the right to go with Meg and make sure that Clarille was unharmed."

Clarille squirmed in my arms. It was clear that she had had enough of being carried around all the time. Apart from needing to be changed, she also had to be hungry. She hadn't eaten anything all day.

"Can't we talk about all this once I've brought Clarille to the nursery?" I asked. "There are people upstairs waiting for news, too."

"Witnesses have to be questioned as soon as possible," the policeman said stubbornly. "It's the normal procedure. Inspector Ganá always tell us that – "

"Have you already informed the Inspector that Clarille is back?" Jean interrupted him. He threw a brief glance over his shoulder at us and winked.

"Of course I have," the policeman answered, looking offended. "I sent him a message once Mme. Gardé had told me everything. He will be here shortly."

"Well, in that case, I don't know why we're talking at all," Jean said pleasantly. "There's little point in you questioning us when the Inspector will doubtlessly do it again once he arrives."

Jean didn't give the policeman time to consider his words, but ushered us to the stairs.

"Tell the Inspector he'll find us in the nursery," he called over his shoulder.

Meg and I looked at each other and suppressed giggles.

At the foot of the stairs, Raoul stopped.

"I think I'll better go," he announced. "There's nothing left for me to do here, and so many things have to be organised at home. The funeral and... all that. If the police want anything else, they can find me at home. Just send down Cecile, will you?"

I nodded automatically, too stunned to do anything else. I had known that Raoul would leave sooner or later, but I had rather hoped it would be later. As I walked upstairs, I wondered why it was that even though I had got my daughter back, a little spot inside me still felt empty.


	70. Chapter Seventy

**Author's note:** This chapter was influenced by all the snow I see when I look out of the window. I wish you all a happy pre-Christmas time!

**Chapter Seventy**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

I didn't wait for Cecile at the foot of the stairs. As soon as I heard the policeman come back, I went outside. I felt no desire to be questioned by him again. I regretted my decision almost instantly. It was dark outside and very cold. I wrapped my coat around myself more tightly, shivering in the icy wind.

It occurred to me that by taking her into the cellar, the people who had abducted Clarille had actually done her a huge favour. If they had left her outside, she could have caught far worse diseases than a cold. Had those people been thoughtful, not wishing to harm a child which they thought wasn't Christine's, or had it been a mere coincidence?

I had decided not to tell the others about the note I had found, at least not for the time being. They had all been so happy when Cecile had reappeared. I hadn't wanted to disturb that happiness with new speculations as to who could have taken her and what might happen next.

Moreover, I hadn't wanted to frighten Christine, now that she had just managed to calm down again. I hadn't told her about it, but I was worried about those fainting fits of hers. It couldn't be healthy. I promised myself that the next time I'd talk to her, I'd ask her to see a doctor.

Perhaps I'd tell Meg and Jean about the note, though. It was a big thing to keep to myself. But then, I didn't want them to be worried all the time either. They had been through so much already, for no other reason than that they were friends with a woman whom somebody threatened.

The arrival of Cecile kept me from further pondering. I resolved not to make a final decision about the note until later and to devote my attention to Cecile instead. Surely she needed someone to take care of her.

Even in the little light coming from the lanterns at the door, I saw that she looked slightly better than when I had sent her to the nursery. Her eyes were not as red as they had been.

"Are we leaving, M. le Comte?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied, taking her arm. "And quickly, before we freeze to death."

I steered her down the path towards the gate. The cold was not the only reason why I wanted to leave immediately. I was worried that the Inspector would arrive before long. I didn't feel like going back into the house and being questioned. I just wanted to go home.

When we reached the coach, however, I had to realise that instead of going into the chamber next to the stable in order to keep warm, the coachman had found his very own method. He was slumped in his seat, a blanket over his knees and a bottle clutched in his hand. Even when I addressed him loudly and clearly, he didn't look up at me, but only gave a groan and continued snoring. It was fortunate that he had at least brought the horse into the stable before he had started drinking, or the poor animal would have frozen to death.

"Is something wrong with him?" Cecile asked anxiously, peering over my shoulder.

"No, no," I replied hastily, moving to block the sleeping man from her gaze. "Not yet, anyway," I added grimly. I was determined to dismiss the coachman as soon as he would be sober enough to understand it. This time, he had gone too far.

I stood next to the coach for a moment, thinking, but there was only one solution.

"Get into the coach," I told Cecile. "There are a few blankets under the bench that should keep you warm. I'm going to fetch the horse. Tonight, I'll have to be the coachman."

Looking rather puzzled, Cecile did as she was told. With an enormous effort, I heaved the man off the coachbox and placed him on the seat opposite Cecile's. For a moment, I was tempted to throw him out into the street, but I was not that heartless.

The horse, a big brown gelding called Nero, was not pleased to see me. He was even less pleased when I pulled the harness over his head and led him out of the warm stable into the cold winter evening. From the coachman, I knew that it was hard to get the horse out of that stable at the best of times, for it had once been his home. I had bought him from Meg and Jean a few months previously.

As we made our way down the path, I urged Nero to walk more quickly, as I was afraid the Inspector would show up after all. When we got to the coach, however, no one was there. Ten minutes later, we were ready to leave.

It was a strange feeling to drive the coach myself. I had learned how it was done together with my brother when I had been thirteen or fourteen years old, but I had mainly relied on coachmen since. After all, as my father had always pointed out, it was their profession, and who was I to take it away from them?

After about a quarter of an hour, just when I had grown confident that it was not so difficult after all, it began to snow. Soft snowflakes fell on the street and on the trees, on the horse and on me. If I had watched it from the window of my comfortable sitting room, it would have been beautiful. As it was, however, it was only cold. Very, very cold.

I had not brought a hat with me, and soon, my hair was plastered to my head, soaked and heavy. I kept pushing strands of it out of my eyes, but I could hardly see a thing anyway. The lamps on the coach illuminated only a few steps of the road ahead. Beyond it was total darkness.

I fervently wished I had invested money in one of the coaches that had big lamps and offered a roof over the head of the coachman, too, not just the passengers. At the time I had bought the coach, I had thought it wouldn't be necessary. Even when there was snow it Paris, it didn't remain on the streets very long, and there was always enough light coming from the houses and street lamps.

But this wasn't Paris, at least not in the stricter sense of the word. It was a country lane just outside the city. I had always admired Meg and Jean for choosing such a beautiful location for their home. Now it only made me curse furiously under my breath. Why couldn't they have lived somewhere closer to my own house?

Then longer I drove, however, the angrier I grew at myself. I should have realised that the weather might turn that bad. I should have asked Meg and Jean if Cecile and I could stay for the night. We'd be sitting in nice, warm rooms now.

But then, who could have known it would become that cold? The night before, it had been much warmer. We had come back from the performance in the middle of the night, and it hadn't been freezing. True, it had not been warm, but in our coats and gloves, we had been quite comfortable.

Snow was falling thick and fast now, making the road more slippery by the minute. I could barely see where we were going. Even Nero, whom I had bought as a very obedient horse which always did as he was told, seemed to have enough. Without the occasional help of the whip, he'd have turned around and gone back to the stable. I couldn't blame him.

Come to think of it, it was not such a bad idea. Why didn't we just go back and ask Meg and Jean for a place to stay? Even the prospect of being questioned by the Inspector seemed positively delightful compared to what we were just going through. Besides, he probably wouldn't be there anyway. I hadn't seen another coach since we had left.

"All right, Nero," I called, though I wasn't sure whether the horse could hear me. "We're turning around."

Even if he hadn't heard me, Nero certainly understood the signs I gave with the reins. His reaction was instant – much more instant than I had anticipated. Instead of turning around in the slow, big circle I had indicated with the reins, he turned much too quickly. The coach swayed dangerously, and I was thrown to one side.

"Nero," I called as I straightened up again. I tried my best to sound calm, even though my head was pounding where it had slammed against the side of the coach. "Nero... calm down, boy... calm down, Nero."

It had no effect. Nero hardly knew my voice, and he didn't trust me. He had been given his chance to go home, so he did it... and fast. I had lost every control over him. The reins were slippery in my cold, stiff fingers, and I couldn't see where we were going.

I heard a faint screaming and pounding from behind me and knew that Cecile had noticed that something was going terribly wrong. I shouted something comforting, but the words were whipped out of my mouth by the cruel wind. I couldn't turn around to her. I had to cling onto the coach for dear life.

And then it happened. Ahead, there was a bend in the road. It would have been easy to take at a gentle trot. At the break-neck speed Nero had adopted in the last minutes, however, it was impossible.

"No!" I cried, pulling the reins with all my might.

But Nero had already thrown his body into the bend. Somehow, he made it through it, but we didn't. There was a loud thud, and a shudder went through the coach. The wheels on the right-hand side had left the road and were thundering along on the field next to it. Terror welled up inside me. I knew the coach wouldn't stay upright for long.

For a few moments, all I could do was feel the uneven ground beneath the wheels. Then it disappeared. The ground on the right-hand side of the coach had broken away. The coach swayed and lurched to the right. My hands gripped the hard wood, but they could no longer hold onto it. Next moment, I was thrown off the coach and flew through the air. ´Like a bird´, I thought vaguely. Then my head hit something, and everything went black. Even the snow.


	71. Chapter SeventyOne

**Chapter Seventy-One**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

By the time I came back to the opera, I was desperate, not to mention soaked to the skin. I had searched all the streets around the opera. I had peered into every shop and restaurant, in case Marcella had grown hungry and decided to buy something to eat. I had given her enough money to buy ten meals.

However, she hadn't turned up anywhere. I had even taken to asking people in the street whether they had seen a young girl with long dark hair, but all the leads I had been given had got me nowhere. Either Marcella had already left the places where she had supposedly been spotted, or the people had truly seen another girl. I didn't know what to believe.

It had become even worse once it had begun to snow. No one had wanted to stop and listen to me anymore. I could have forced them, of course, but in my experience, such a treatment didn't encourage anyone to talk to me. The streets had grown empty very quickly, which had made my search easier in a way, but also more frantic. Marcella came from Italy. She wasn't used to cold weather. I didn't know whether she had ever seen snow in her life. How was she supposed to know what to do? I had checked her room: She hadn't taken a coat with her.

The only good thing, I reflected as I walked up the stairs to the entrance door, had been that no one in the street had stared at me or gasped in fear. My new mask looked so real that I doubted anyone had seen that it was not my face. For once in my life, I was almost ordinary.

Unfortunately, my mask was not of great importance to me at the moment. Two questions had got hold of my mind and didn't let it go: Where was Marcella? Where was Clarille?

I had thought about little else than the child all morning and afternoon. The police with all their pointless questions had left me no other choice. Once they had run out of questions, it had been decided that I'd stay locked up until the girl had been found. I had easily demonstrated the flaws of that plan by picking the lock of my cell and leaving through the front door, calling over my shoulder that if they thought of any more questions, they'd find me at the opera.

The feeling of triumph that had filled my chest had lasted for half an hour only. It had evaporated quickly when I had opened the door to Marcella's room and found it empty. At once, all my plans of going to search for Clarille had been abandoned. Instead, I had started looking for Marcella straight away. After all, I was the only one to search for her, whereas many people were searching for Clarille.

Yet now that I had run out of places to search, I felt rather empty. I even briefly considered contacting the police, but decided against it. They'd only tell me that Marcella was old enough to look after herself for a few hours. They wouldn't have understood that while they might have some knowledge about Parisian girls, they knew nothing about Marcella, who had never left the opera without me and didn't even speak enough French to ask for directions if she lost her way.

As I entered the opera, my feet carried me to Marcella's room automatically. I was hoping against hope that she might have turned up by now, with an apology on her lips and that sweet smile of hers. But I was hoping in vain. When I looked into the room, it was still just as empty as when I had entered it hours before.

"Is she still not here?"

The sound of a female voice behind me almost made me jump out of my skin. I spun around, pulling the Punjab Lasso out as I did so.

"Put that thing away, please," the same voice said dryly. "I have not come to harm you." It was Mme. Giry.

Feeling a little ashamed of myself, I stored the Lasso back under my cloak. It was not a good sign that I hadn't recognised the voice of a woman I had known for years.

"No, she's not here," I replied sadly. "I looked everywhere."

"I asked the managers, my chorus girls and the stage hands," Mme. Giry told me. "And everyone else I met. Nobody has seen her. But there are good news, too," she added. "Very good news indeed."

"What is it?" I asked. I found it hard to imagine good news at the moment.

"Clarille has been found," Mme. Giry answered, smiling.

Many other people would have jumped up and down in joy when delivering such news, but I knew that her little smile contained just as much excitement and happiness.

I was smiling as well, glad to hear good news for a change.

"How do you know?" I asked eagerly. "Oh, come in, come in," I added, gesturing at the dressing room. "You know that the corridors have ears out here."

Mme. Giry followed me into the room and sank down on the stool in front of the dressing table, looking unusually weak, almost fragile.

"What a day," she muttered wearily. "The managers want me to dismiss several chorus girls who didn't perform well yesterday, and I spent all morning trying to persuade them to give the girls another chance. I know they can do better – " She shook her head, as if trying to pull herself together. "But that is neither here nor there. I've received a note from Meg. Here, you can read it for yourself. There's a part from Christine to you, too. It says that they wrote it all in one letter, so the police wouldn't get suspicious."

I nodded and took the letter from Mme. Giry. As I did so, I noticed how cold the paper was, except where she had held it. The weather seemed to be getting even worse.

The letter was rather short and looked as if Christine and Meg had written it in a hurry. Still, it contained the information I wanted. It told me where and how Clarille had been found and that she was alive and well.

At the bottom of the page, Christine had scribbled a few words: _I understand that you're upset about Marcella's disappearance. We all hope that you'll find her soon and that she'll be just as fine as Clarille. If you'd like to see Clarille, you can come to me anytime you please. I'll spend the night here at Meg's house, but I'll be back home tomorrow. Antoinette and Philippe send their love. _

My smile widened as I read Christine's lines. It all sounded so thoughtful and sympathetic. Of course I'd go and visit the children and her, as soon as possible.

"Do you think I can send a reply straight back? Or would that be inappropriate, in case the police are still with them?" I asked Mme. Giry, who had watched me read in silence. She did not belong to the people who had to talk all the time.

"I doubt the police would mind a letter, now that Clarille is back," Mme. Giry answered. "They'll have more important things to do than go through Christine's mail. But you can't send any letter at the moment. I've spoken to Gabriel when he arrived here with the letter, and he told me that the streets are slippery with snow. He barely made it through, and he won't be able to get back. I gave him a room here at the opera for the night. I'll stay here, too."

"I see," I muttered. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. I'll visit Christine once it will be safe to travel again... if I'll have found Marcella by then, that is." I gave a little sigh.

"Perhaps you should search the opera again," Mme. Giry suggested.

I shook my head sadly.

"I searched every room before I even thought of going outside," I told her. "I'd have never believed that Marcella would leave the opera. The foolish girl! This is her home."

"Maybe all she wanted was a change of scenery," Mme. Giry remarked quietly. "Marcella is not like you, Erik. From all you've told me about her, she's not used to staying inside all the time. She needs to get out every now and then."

"So you think that it's my own fault, do you?" I called, pacing up and down the length of the room. "You think that she ran away from me! You think that she now seeks her fortune elsewhere!"

"I didn't say that," she corrected me. "I just try to see the situation from her point of view, because I want to help you. You told me that you had left her in the morning to fetch her breakfast and didn't return till the afternoon. I think it's possible that she left the opera to search for you, and then... maybe she found that she liked it better outside. Maybe she met someone who offered her a better way of living."

Mme. Giry got up from the stool and stopped my furious pacing by putting a hand on my arm.

"It is possible," she repeated seriously, yet not unkindly. "It happens to my chorus girls all the time. Ten of them use their free afternoon to go out, and only eight return. Life at the opera is difficult and demanding, Erik, whether you are a singer or a dancer. We teachers, who have been here for many years, sometimes forget that."

"But... Marcella is not like that," I protested feebly.

I didn't want to believe it. I knew that other young people shrank back from responsibility, but I had always thought Marcella to be different. But then, what did I know about the nature of young girls? With the exception of Philippe, I hadn't had a single pupil after Christine. Mme. Giry, on the other hand, taught girls all the time. Perhaps she did know best.

"Thank you for telling me about Clarille," I said, shaking off Mme. Giry's hand and walking to the door. "I'll... go now."

"But where are you going?" she asked.

"Home," I replied weakly. "I've... I've got a lot to think about."


	72. Chapter SeventyTwo

**Chapter Seventy-Two**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

I made my way down to the cellars slowly. It was fortunate that I knew every corridor, every step I took, or I might have lost my way. My mind was working so furiously that I couldn't think about anything but Marcella. Once or twice, I nearly collided with someone, but I didn't stop to see who it was.

I had assumed that I'd feel better once the worries about Clarille were over, but they had only been replaced by even more worries about Marcella. Mme. Giry's words repeated themselves over and over in my head.

_It happens all the time... ten go out, eight come back... it happens all the time... all the time... all the time..._

Could it really be true? Could Marcella have run away? The thought was almost too terrible to contemplate. I had believed that I knew what was best for her. She had always been so happy when I had talked about her future career on the stage. Admittedly, she hadn't been all that enthusiastic, but I had thought it was all due to her shyness. I had assumed that she'd grow more open about her feelings once she got to know me better. After all, if she didn't want to become a singer, why had she been so eager to come with me to Paris in the first place?

The answer came to me at once: Marcella would have done almost anything to get away from that horrible father or hers. I had offered her a way of escaping, and she had seized it. She had probably been so relieved that she had found a way out that didn't involve her marrying an equally horrible man that she hadn't thought twice about it.

It suddenly occurred to me that I had never even asked her whether she liked singing, except on that one occasion at the well of her home village, when we had first met. I had always assumed that if she liked singing, she'd enjoy my lessons as well, but maybe I had been wrong. Maybe I had thought she enjoyed them, simply because Christine had. Maybe... maybe I had thought that if I treated Marcella like Christine, she'd become like her.

But she was not Christine. She was Marcella – a girl I had scarcely known, as it now appeared. I would have liked to talk to her, to tell her how sorry I was and to promise I'd do better in the future. But I couldn't do that anymore. She was gone, and I had no idea where she was. I could try to find out her whereabouts, but I knew Paris too well to be very optimistic. It was one thing to search for a child who had been abducted, but quite another to find a young girl who had gone willingly.

I was walking more quickly now, barely aware that I was already underground. I wanted nothing more than to stop thinking of what could have happened to Marcella, but I couldn't outrun my own thoughts. I knew the kind of people who preyed on foolish young girls, promising them careers as singers or dancers and selling them to places no decent man would ever enter. The thought made me angry. I hadn't rescued Marcella, only to have her end up in an environment of violence and despair!

She was a nice girl, and such a promising singer. If I compared her to some of the other people who came to the opera, claiming to be singers... Their voices were more like a groaning and moaning than anything else...

It took me a few moments to realise that I was indeed hearing a groaning and moaning. I came to an abrupt halt and looked around me. I was in a corridor not far from the entrance to the cellars. I always had to be careful in those corridors, for some people still knew about the door leading down here. It was the door the mob had come through on its irritating quest to murder me. That was why I had put a little extra protection around it.

I shone my lantern here and there and saw what had happened: In the corridor that intersected with mine, just a few steps away, a trapdoor had opened. Someone had evidently stepped onto the hidden switch and fallen into the pit I had dug below.

I knelt down at the edge of the pit and dangled my lantern into it, eager to see who wanted to visit me. When I saw who it was, I let out a curse. Marcella was cowering in the pit, her arms wrapped around her knees, trembling from head to foot. A faint moaning was coming from her. It was barely audible. If it hadn't been for my good hearing, I doubted that I'd have heard anything.

"Marcella?" I called softly.

Her head moved a fraction of an inch into the direction of my voice. It was not much, but it told me that at least she hadn't passed out... or worse. I lay down flat on my stomach and stretched out my arm, but try as I might, I couldn't reach the girl. The pit was simply too deep. After all, I hadn't wanted intruders to get out.

With a groan, I came to my feet again and sat down at the edge of the pit. Slowly, I lowered myself into it. With a little jump, I landed next to Marcella. Since the lantern was still standing above me in the corridor, I could hardly see a thing about the girl. She looked unhurt, but I'd have to have a closer look at her later.

Marcella barely stirred when I picked her up from the ground. Her clothes and hair emanated a strong smell of damp earth. I tried hard not to think of graves. Instead, I thought about how to get out of the pit. I could have climbed out easily, but not with Marcella in my arms, and there was no way she could climb out, not even with my help. She was much too weak. For a moment, the terrible feeling of being trapped threatened to overwhelm me, but I quickly managed to pull myself together.

All the traps were my own construction. Naturally, I had ways to get out of them, in case someone I cared about landed in them. There had to be a way out of this one, too... if only I remembered what it was! Then it came to me. I ran a hand over the earthy wall until I found the hidden switch. A few moments later, steps had appeared in the wall, leading upwards. I could easily climb up while holding Marcella.

All the movement seemed to have woken up Marcella, for when we were back in the corridor, she opened her eyes and gazed at me. Her lips parted, but only a little groan came out.

"Don't try to speak," I advised her gently. "You're too weak. Anything you want to say can wait until later."

Marcella closed her eyes obediently, her head resting against my shoulder. It was a gesture that spoke of so much trust that I was oddly touched by it. How could I have seriously believed that she'd run away from me?

I would have liked to find out what she had done in that part of the opera, but she was in no condition to answer questions. What she needed now was a hot bath, a warm bed and something good to drink. Since her room upstairs didn't have an own bathroom, let alone the kind of drink that would warm her cold bones, there was only one thing I could do: I had to take her to my home.

While I closed the trapdoor with my foot and made my way down the corridor, I pondered on what to tell her when she'd wake up. I had to give her some kind of explanation as to why I was living in a house underground. This led me to wondering how she had known where to search for me at all. I was certain that I had been the reason for her to come down here. Marcella was not the kind of girl who went exploring on her own without a reason.

Someone must have told her where I lived. I had thought that she was too shy to talk to people she didn't know, but evidently, I had been wrong. The question was, how much had that person told her? I'd have to ask Marcella as soon as she was better. I had to know it, I simply had to.

It took me quite a while to reach my home. Marcella was by no means heavy, but I wasn't used to carrying anyone for such a long time. I had to stop every few minutes to catch my breath. Moreover, I couldn't have rowed while holding the girl in my arms, so I had to take the long way around the lake.

I let out a sigh of relief as I could finally open the door to my house and lay down Marcella on the sofa in the living room. I lit a small lamp on the table, then left the room quietly.

It was only when I was busy heating water for the bath, humming merrily to myself, that I understood why I was in such a good mood. It didn't matter why Marcella was down here. It didn't matter what someone might or might not have told her about me. At the moment, all that mattered was that she had not run away from me. I had been given a second chance, and I was ready to seize it.


	73. Chapter SeventyThree

**Author's Note:** I wish all my readers a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! May all your wishes come true!

**Chapter Seventy-Three**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

When I had heated enough water to fill the bathtub, I brought Marcella to the bathroom. She had woken up and was able to walk, albeit a little shakily. I kept right next to her, in order to support her if necessary. She still seemed rather weak.

"This is my bathroom," I told the girl as I led her inside. "Take as much time as you please. If you need anything, call me. I won't be far away."

She nodded, looking around in wide-eyed fascination. It occurred to me that she had probably never been in a bathroom that beautiful before.

I briefly explained where everything was and left the room. I was genuinely relieved that she didn't need my help in taking off her clothes. It would have been very embarrassing for both of us. I had understood that Marcella was not Christine, but I didn't want my new opinion of her to be based on her physical features.

My heart felt lighter than it had in a long time. Marcella and Clarille had returned, and both were unharmed. I decided to spend the time while Marcella was in the bathroom playing the organ. I didn't feel like composing, but music was my favourite past-time when I was in a good mood.

As soon as I had sat down on the bench, my fingers began to play one of my favourite melodies. My heart grew lighter still. It had been far too long since the last time I had played the organ, just for the pleasure of playing. I gave Philippe lessons, but it was not the same as playing myself.

Maybe I would start teaching Antoinette as well. I knew how much she liked music. I wasn't sure whether Christine would allow it, but judging her mood by the letter Meg and she had sent me, I thought it was possible. I decided to ask her when I'd go to see Clarille.

While I played, my thoughts drifted off to the child. My daughter. Of course, I couldn't be sure that she was my daughter, but it was better than nothing. I had never thought I'd be a father at all. That was why I had asked Christine for her son as my heir, all those years ago. I loved Philippe like my own flesh and blood. But still... an own child...

Without quite meaning to do so, I changed the melody I was playing. I reached for a pen and wrote the melody down on a piece of paper. Frowning, I played it again, making a few alterations and scratching out notes on the paper. I had slipped right into the process of composing a lullaby.

I didn't stop until, somewhere at the back of my mind, I heard Marcella calling my name. I quickly put away the pen and paper and went to see what she needed.

"Here I am," I said when I stood outside the bathroom. "What can I do for you?"

"I have finished my bath, Signor Erik," she replied, and I was pleased to hear that her voice sounded stronger than before. She spoke Italian, but I didn't correct her. After what she had been through, I didn't expect her to speak a foreign language.

"There are fresh clothes for you on the stool next to the washbasin," I told her through the closed door. "Put them on, and you can come out."

I waited in front of the bathroom for a few minutes, listening to the sound of her footsteps and the rustling of clothes. After what had happened at the performance, I had been reluctant to give her anything that had once belonged to Christine. Fortunately, I had bought clothes for her only a couple of days previously. She had been running low on undergarments and nightdresses. The pale pink dressing gown was the only piece of clothing I had borrowed from Christine's wardrobe, but she was unlikely ever to find out.

At last, Marcella opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

"You look pretty," I told her with a kind smile.

The clothes did indeed fit her well. Yet what I liked most were her red cheeks and the bright eyes. She looked so much healthier.

"Thank you, Signor Erik," she mumbled.

"Just go through to the living room, second door on the right," I said. "I'll fix us drinks and something good to eat. I trust that you're hungry?"

She nodded shyly.

"But you don't have to do that for me," she said seriously. "I can do the food and drinks, and you sit down. You have done so much for me already."

"No, no, no," I commented with a little chuckle. "You are my guest here. You are to enjoy yourself."

Marcella nodded again and, after a little encouraging gesture from me, left into the direction of the living room.

I watched her till I was quite sure that she opened the right door. Then I went into the kitchen. I wasn't sure whether Marcella had eaten at all that day. She had to be so hungry. I didn't have a great variety of food, but at least there was plenty of it. I did feel a little hungry myself.

After I had prepared the food, I fixed drinks for us. I made tea with a lot of sugar. For a moment, I considered pouring a little alcohol into Marcella's cup, but decided against it. Calming one's nerves with alcohol was a habit easy to slip into and very difficult to get out again, especially at such an early age.

When I was finished, I put everything on a tray and carried it to the living room. Marcella was sitting on the sofa, looking around herself shyly. Other girls would have taken advantage of my absence by going through my belongings, but she was not like that. She was a decent girl.

I placed the tray on the table in front of the sofa.

"We could eat at the big table in the kitchen," I told her, handing her a plate and cutlery. "But it's warmer in here. Help yourself."

Hesitantly, the girl took a slice of bread, butter and cold meat. I could see how hungry she was, but she didn't forget her manners. Only when she had finished her first slice of bread and reached for the second one did I begin to eat as well.

The astonishing amount of food Marcella ate proved that I had been right in assuming that she hadn't got anything all day. I didn't eat as much as she did, but I was happy to watch her. She also drank several cups of tea. It was fortunate that I had not given her any kind of alcohol, or she would have become very drunk. As it was, I let her take as much as she pleased. I was glad that she liked my food and drink.

It was only when Marcella pushed her now empty plate away from her that she asked the question I had anticipated.

"Signor Erik... why do you live in a house underground?" she wanted to know. "Why don't you live up there, like everyone else?"

I had had quite a lot of time to think about a good answer, so it came fairly quickly. If Marcella didn't prove to be too curious, I might even get away without mentioning the mask or my past.

"I like it down here," I replied simply. "Up in the main part of the opera, there's always so much noise... so many people... I need the quiet in order to work. So I live here."

Marcella nodded slowly.

"But why do you have that... that horrible...?" she asked.

I knew what she wanted to say. I could have hardly expected her to forget about it.

"I have the traps, so no one comes down here and disturbs me while I'm working," I explained. "Of course, I didn't mean for you to get caught in one of them. I am very sorry, Marcella. But I wasn't to know..."

"No, I am sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have gone looking for you. I didn't have the right to do it. I just... I went to see where you had gone, and there were those two chorus girls, talking about where you live, so..."

"It is all right," I assured her. "It was not your fault, but mine. I had to go away for a few hours and couldn't tell you. It's no wonder that you were worried."

Marcella gave me a little smile.

"I'll go and do the dishes now," I announced. "No, no, you're not to help me. You stay here and have a little more tea."

The girl nodded. I picked up the plates and cutlery, but left the rest behind, in case Marcella wanted to help herself to more sugar.

I tried to do the dishes quickly, but since I had to heat the water first, it did take a while. I used the time to think about the brief conversation we had just had. I couldn't help feeling that it had gone rather well. Admittedly, I had left out a few things that I'd have to tell her another time, but at least I hadn't lied.

When I returned to the living room, I was in a very cheerful mood indeed.

"You don't have to go back to your room tonight," I told the girl. "It's too late, and you're too weak to walk all the way. You can sleep here, on the sofa. It's fairly comfortable. And in the morning, we'll have another lesson. I'll let you sing anything you want. How does that sound to you?"

Marcella stood up. I noticed that she was a little unsteady on her feet and stepped forwards to support her.

"I don't want to sleep on the sofa, all alone," she said, in a voice that was most unlike her usual one. In a completely uncharacteristic gesture, she placed her hands on my shoulders and looked up at me. "I would rather sleep in your bed... with you. How does that sound to you?"


	74. Chapter SeventyFour

**Chapter Seventy-Four**

**December 11****th**** 1895: **_Marcella_

"You stay here and have a little more tea," Signor Erik said.

I looked after him as he left, carrying a small pile of plates and cutlery. I would have never admitted it to him, but secretly, I was glad that he hadn't asked me to help him. My legs still felt a little weak. Besides, it was very comfortable, sitting here in this beautiful room, with nothing more to do than sipping tea.

The longer Signor Erik was gone, however, the less comfortable I felt. Unbidden thoughts crept into my head. It wasn't the first time either. I had heard them all before, when I had been trapped in the pit.

_Look at yourself, Marcella. You are pathetic. How could you ever think that a man like Signor Erik would care for you?_

´But he does care for me,´ I argued, though I was not sure who I was arguing with. ´He rescued me.´

_Yes, yes. After hours in which you sat in that pit, unable to get out. He didn't even tell you where he disappeared to, and you were too cowardly to ask. You're lucky that he happened to stumble over you, or you'd still be in there._

I recognised the voice in my head now. I had hoped never to hear it again. It belonged to my father. Of course I knew that he wasn't really talking to me. But still, I sometimes heard him in my mind. His loud voice, the harsh tone and crude words had been part of my life for such a long time that I couldn't get away from them now either. I knew exactly what he'd say to this or that.

It was worst at night-time. After a few days in my new room, I had overcome the fear of ghosts and evil spirits, but I could not overcome the fear of my father. Only when Signor Erik sat next to my bed did I not dream of my father every night. Signor Erik kept me safe.

But Signor Erik was not there now, and my father knew it. I almost felt his presence in the room, like a sinister shadow.

´Signor Erik went to search for me,´ I told him. ´I'm his pupil. He likes me.´

_Oh, I'm sure he _likes _you_, my father retorted, giving the word a sarcastic stress. _And I suppose you like him, too, don't you?_

I blushed deeply. How did my father know? But then, it was nothing to be ashamed of, was it?

´Yes, I like him´, I said defiantly. ´He's my teacher. He's good to me. He gives me food and clothes and a place to stay. He's... he's a better father than you've ever been!´

I clapped my hand over my mouth, not sure whether I had said the last words aloud. I had suddenly grown so angry. Anxiously, I peered over to the door, but it didn't open. Signor Erik had not heard me. Only my father had. He was still there in my head. I could almost see his unpleasant smirk.

_All good things come at a price, Marcella. I fed and clothed you because it was my duty as a father to care for you, even though you are only a girl. Other men don't do it for free. You think Signor Erik is a right saint, but he's not. He's just a man, and men have needs. If you don't fulfil them, another girl will._

´No, no,´ I protested. ´Signor Erik is not that kind of man...´

_Oh yes, he is_, my father disagreed, in that self-righteous way of his that I had always despised so much. _What about that woman... Christine? You've seen the way he looks at her. He loves her. If he gets the chance to be with her, he'll do it. And where will you be? Out in the street, and don't think I'll take you back! You've got to earn his affection before it's too late!_

I nodded obediently. Surely my father was right. He was always right about that kind of thing. And what did I know about men? Hardly anything. I only knew the things I had heard from the other girls in the village. They had often spoken about the activities between men and women. Every now and then, there had been a useful piece of information hidden amidst all the breathless giggling.

I knew I'd have to seduce Signor Erik somehow. Once I had done that, he wouldn't think of other women anymore. Yet even though the hot bath and the meal had left me feeling much better than before, I couldn't imagine seducing anyone. I was much too shy. I could hardly look Signor Erik in the eye, let alone touch or even kiss him.

Fortunately, I recalled one of my friends mentioning that exact problem.

´If you can't bring yourself to doing it, just have a few drinks first,´ Maria had advised. ´It will help you grow calmer and more daring.´

Since Maria had been engaged to the mayor's son, the most handsome young man in the village, I could be certain that her advice was good. It didn't take me long to find the right beverage either. There was a bottle of amber liquid sitting on the mantelpiece. I fetched it, pulled out the stopper and sniffed the contents gingerly. I had never drunk alcohol before, but I recognised the smell from the many times my father had come home from the inn.

The first sip was disgusting. I had drunk from the bottle, and I could hardly keep myself from spitting it straight back. My eyes watered as I swallowed hard, forcing down the alcohol with difficulty. It seemed to burn my insides, all the way down to my stomach.

Quickly, before I could think about it, I took another gulp, and another. The burning sensation didn't vanish. On the contrary, it spread through my entire body, making me gasp for breath. I was tingling all over, from my toes to my fingertips. What a peculiar feeling...

When I had drunk more than half of the bottle's contents and felt that I could take no more, I stopped. My head felt strangely distant from the rest of my body. I got to my feet and tried to put the bottle back onto the mantelpiece, but I needed several attempts till it worked. The furniture seemed to be moving all around me, and I barely made it back to the sofa.

Moments after I had sat down again, the door opened, and Signor Erik came in. At once, the heat from my body seemed to pool into my stomach. He said something, and I replied, but the words rushed through my head before I could really think about them.

I wasn't aware that I had left the sofa until I found myself in front of Signor Erik, with my hands on his shoulders. His face looked peculiar, gliding in and out of focus. Blood was pounding in my ears. Standing on tiptoe, I pressed my lips against his clumsily. In the corner of the room, my father let out a triumphant laugh.

_Erik_

For a few moments, I was too stunned to react. I could only feel. Marcella's soft lips on mine were unfamiliar, but they felt strangely good. It had been a long time since I had last been kissed in such a way. The angry kiss I had given Christine could not compare to it. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend that it was Christine kissing me.

My eyes flew open as I noticed an unfamiliar taste on my tongue. Christine's kisses had never tasted like that. The moment was over. The illusion was gone. It was Marcella who kissed me, not Christine, and I had a fairly good idea as to why she was doing it.

Gently, I disengaged myself from her.

"Marcella," I said softly. "Have you been drinking?"

The girl mumbled something I didn't understand, but a glance over to the mantelpiece told me all I needed to know. I had recognised the taste of brandy on my tongue.

"Why have you done that?" I asked sternly. I repeated the question in French, since I was not sure which one she'd respond to.

When she replied, it was in Italian, but her words were so slurred that I could barely understand them.

"I did it because I wanted to," she said. "It feels good... and you feel good, too. I want to f-feel more of you... And if you don't want me, I'll go and f-find someone else who will. But you d-don't want that, do you?"

With these words, she reached out and grabbed a very sensitive part of me. I jumped.

"Marcella!" I cried in indignation.

Her touch had awakened something inside me, something that I had almost thought gone. I made a decision.

"All right," I told her. "You can sleep in my bed."


	75. Chapter SeventyFive

**Chapter Seventy-Five**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Waking up in my old room in Meg's house was a wonderful sensation. It felt as if I had never left. At the back of the wardrobe, in which Meg now stored her summer garments, I even found some of my own clothes, and a few for Antoinette and Philippe. There was nothing for Clarille, but I'd simply have to borrow something from Michel. Meg and I had swapped their clothes all the time when they had been younger.

At the thought of my youngest daughter, I turned and looked over to her. I had wanted to keep her close to me, so we had carried her little bed into my room. The child was still fast asleep. The doctor, who had arrived late in the evening, after he had visited a baby with a fever in the neighbourhood, had assured us that Clarille was healthy, apart from a slight cold.

As I wanted to keep an eye on her, even as she slept, I didn't go to the bathroom, but remained at Clarille's side, washing with water from the washbasin and getting dressed in the clothes I had found. By the time I buttoned my blouse, Clarille stirred. She opened her beautiful brown eyes and gazed up at me.

"Maman," she muttered, smiling brightly.

I beamed back at her, feeling the simple, but overwhelming joy of being able to look at my child. It felt just as wonderful as the first time I had ever seen her, right after her birth.

"I'm here, my little darling," I told her softly, taking her into my arms.

She no longer smelled of the damp cellar, for I had washed her the night before. Now, she only smelled of lavender soap and of herself. If only I could have washed away the memories of that time in the cellar that easily! I pressed Clarille against me. What if she would be anxious and overly wary for the rest of her childhood, maybe even the rest of her life? I had heard about such things happening.

I shook my head firmly. I mustn't worry about it. I had Clarille back, and that was all that mattered. What was the point in worrying about something that might or might not happen in the future? At the moment, I found it hard to worry about anything.

With Clarille in my arms, I left the room and made my way to the children's bedroom. Antoinette and Philippe had only been too happy to sleep in their old beds. The door stood ajar, but the room was still dark. I peered inside and could just make out the shape of the children in their beds. Even Antoinette, who usually got up so early, seemed to be sleeping longer after the events of the previous day.

I went to the nursery and finally found someone else who was already awake. Marielle was standing at the table, changing Michel and talking animatedly to Jacqueline. When I came in, she stopped in mid-sentence and curtseyed.

"Good morning, Madame," Jacqueline greeted me.

"Good morning," Marielle echoed, her gaze fixed on the floor.

I gave the two girls a smile. I sensed that Marielle still felt guilty because Clarille had been taken while under her care, but I didn't know how to address the subject. I couldn't think of anything to say that would make her feel better.

"Could I borrow some clothes from Michel?" I asked. "I'd like to change Clarille, too."

Of course, I could have taken something without asking, but I wanted to try and start a conversation.

"Yes," Marielle replied. "Of course, Madame."

She gave Michel to Jacqueline and went over to the chest of drawers. A few moments later, she returned with everything I needed.

"Thank you," I said, but Marielle still didn't look at me. "Did you both sleep well?" I wanted to know as I started changing Clarille.

"Oh yes," Jacqueline answered. "Mme. Tavoire has been very kind to me. She gave me a mattress and a blanket. I slept in the children's room, and they were so pleased about it."

"But you could have slept in Gabriel's room," I remarked with a little smile.

I was aware that it wouldn't have been decent to allow Jacqueline and Gabriel to sleep in the same room before they were married, but under the given circumstances, I doubted that Meg and Jean would have had anything against it.

"Didn't you hear?" Jacqueline asked, her eyes wide in surprise. "Gabriel didn't come home last night. There was so much snow on the streets that he couldn't make his way back, so he stayed at the opera for the night. He only returned an hour ago, and he said that he had to make a big detour to avoid the most dangerous streets. Besides," she added after a moment. "I wouldn't have slept in his room anyway. With Jacques dead... it wouldn't have... felt right somehow..."

Marielle put a comforting arm around her friend. I gave her a sympathetic smile, remembering how fond Jacques had always been of Jacqueline. He had even tried to save her when the house had been on fire. And now he was dead. It was indeed an odd thought. Jacques had always been around Raoul, ever since he had been a boy.

I suddenly felt very bad because I had troubled Raoul with the news about Clarille, interrupting what should have been a time of mourning. I'd have to contact him later that day to ask about details of the funeral. I was sure that he had already fixed a date. He was very thoughtful.

Jacqueline seemed to have been thinking along the same lines, for she said,

"Could I... maybe... do you think I could come to the funeral, too? I know I'm just a servant and should stay at home with the children, but..."

"Of course you will come," I told her firmly. "You've known Jacques for years. You liked him. We'll all go to the funeral... the children, too. It'll be a little too cold to take Clarille, but maybe Marielle will look after her."

Marielle gazed at me, half hopeful, half anxious.

"Are you sure, Madame?" she asked. "You want to leave Clarille with me, after all that I've done?"

"You haven't done anything wrong," I replied. "You've been tricked. It could have happened to anyone. And in the end, nothing serious happened. Clarille is healthy. Here, take her."

Marielle took the now completely dressed girl from me, beaming.

"Thank you, Madame," she whispered. "You're so kind to me."

I merely smiled at her, feeling that no words were necessary to react to her joy. If only it had always been that easy to make people happy.

"Have you seen Meg or Jean?" I asked Jacqueline.

She nodded.

"M. Tavoire has already left," she told me. "As far as I know, he had to go and see a business partner. He only waited for Gabriel to eat something and change his clothes, then they took off. Gabriel reckons the streets are safe enough now."

"Mme. Tavoire is downstairs," Marielle added. She was still gazing down at Clarille, as if she had never seen anything so miraculous. "She was here to check on Michel about half an hour ago, but he was still asleep then."

"I'll go to her," I decided. I looked at my daughter, but it would have been cruel to take her away from Marielle already. Besides, Michel was calling for her. "Will you take care of her?"

The two maids nodded. Michel was sitting on the carpet, waving up at Clarille. I watched as Marielle sat her down on the floor and the two children greeted each other. Then I left. I knew that once they had started playing, Clarille wouldn't miss me.

The moment I left the nursery, I sensed that there was something wrong. I could hear raised voices downstairs. The female one belonged to Meg, the male one was a low rumble that I had never heard before. I hurried down the stairs, hoping fervently that the unknown voice was not the bearer of more bad news.

"You won't go up there!" Meg was calling. "Mme. de Chagny has had a very demanding day. She needs rest. I'm her best friend. Anything you want to say to her you can tell me. But I won't let you wake her up."

"It is important," the man insisted.

I could see him now, and I recognised the uniform. It was a policeman. My heart turned to ice.

"I'm here," I said, coming to a halt on the bottommost step. "What do you have to tell me?"

The policeman turned to look at me.

"Mme. de Chagny," he said slowly. "I am sorry to inform you that your husband has had an accident. He is dead."


	76. Chapter SeventySix

**Chapter Seventy-Six**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I heard the policeman's words, but I was unable to take them in. They didn't make any sense. Dead... Dead... How could Raoul be dead? I had seen him, spoken to him only the night before. He had been there when I had been given back Clarille. He had held her in his arms. How could he be dead now? No, he couldn't be dead... not dead like old Jacques.

"Jacques is dead..." I muttered. "Not Raoul... Jacques..."

"I don't know anything about a Jacques, Madame," the policeman said, consulting his notes. "This is about your husband Raoul... the Comte de Chagny. He is... was your husband, wasn't he?"

I nodded. The finality of the past tense scared me more than anything I had heard before.

"You've got to come with me," the policeman went on. "There are many things to – "

"I'll come, too," Meg hastened to interject. "I'll just go and tell Jacqueline and Marielle what has happened. I'll be back in a minute. Don't leave without me." She gave me a sympathetic smile and hurried upstairs.

I didn't look after her. I stared down at the policeman's shoes. There was a dark stain on the left one. I found that as long as I thought of nothing but that stain, I didn't have to feel.

Meg came back what felt like hours later. She took my hand and led me to the wardrobe, pulling a coat over my shoulders, as if I were a little doll. I let her do what she thought was best. I felt neither the warmth of the coat nor the cold as we stepped outside. I didn't feel anything but a strange kind of emptiness.

"I told Jacqueline not to say anything to the children," Meg informed me as we walked down the path and through the gate. "They'll think we've gone to the police station because of Clarille. I thought... I thought it should be you who tells them the truth."

I nodded automatically, wondering how on earth I was going to tell them.

It was not until we had taken our seats in the coach and were on our way that Meg spoke again.

"Can you tell us exactly what has happened?" she asked the policeman, who was sitting opposite us.

"There has been an accident involving M. de Chagny's coach," he replied. "We're not sure what has happened. It was after nightfall, and there were no witnesses. The coach was only discovered this morning. If it had been found sooner, M. de Chagny might have... But that is neither here nor there. The coach landed on its side in a field next to the road, so we suppose that it was going too quickly on the slippery street. We found the horse, too, between the spot where the coach lay and your house. We think that it tried to gallop back to the stable, but its reins got tangled in the branches of a tree. You can fetch the horse anytime from the police stable."

Again, I nodded, almost impatiently. I found it hard to be enthusiastic about the horse when Raoul was dead.

"Where are we going?" Meg asked after a few minutes' silence. "This is not the way to M. de Chagny's... that is to say, to the de Chagnys' house."

"We're going to the hospital," the policeman answered. "There would be little point in going to the house, since no one is there. At the hospital, you'll see the deceased. If you wish, you'll also be able to visit the other people who were in the coach, the coachman and a young woman. It won't be much use, though. When I left, they were both still unconscious."

"So _they_ are all right?" I wanted to know. I was unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

"Yes," he replied. "They were lucky. They've got scratches and bruises all over, and the coachman has sprained his ankle rather badly, but... like I said, they were lucky."

He gave me a small, almost apologetic smile.

"How did you know where to find Christine then?" Meg asked. "When none of them could tell you?" I knew that she was trying to steer the conversation into a direction that would be less painful for me, and I was very grateful for it.

"It was a curious coincidence," the policeman said. "You see, none of us policemen knew the people in the coach, and we didn't know how to find out their names. But as we were cutting the horse's reins free from the tree, a couple of men came by and helped us. And one of them recognised it as the horse he had given new horseshoes a few months ago, before it had been sold to the Comte de Chagny. So we knew who the man in the coach was. And when we reported back to the police station, we heard about the abduction of the de Chagnys' daughter and learned that Mme. de Chagny was staying with you, Mme. Tavoire. We still don't know the other people's names, though", he added after a moment. "Perhaps you could help us, Mesdames?"

"The coachman's name is Gerald, I think," I replied slowly. "But I can't remember his last name. The young woman is called Cecile. She is a friend of the family."

I couldn't bring myself to explaining that she might have been more than a friend to Raoul. I didn't want him to be remembered as ´the man who died in a coach with his lady-friend´. It wouldn't have been dignified. Raoul had been a good man... such a good man...

The tears I had been trying so hard to hold back were now falling quickly. Once I had started crying, I found that I couldn't stop. Meg put her arm around me, and I pressed my face into her shoulder.

The rest of the journey passed in silence, except for my sobs. I felt no shame because I was crying in front of a total stranger. I didn't care about anything but the terrible pain inside me.

When the coach stopped in front of the hospital, I tried to pull myself together a little, for my eyes were aching from crying. Meg pressed a handkerchief into my hand, and I dabbed at my eyes. The policeman got out first. He offered me his hand, but I let Meg help me out instead. I couldn't bear anyone else's touch now.

I barely noticed where Meg was leading me. I was lost in memories about Raoul. I couldn't believe that he was dead. How could such a wonderful person die, just like that? I thought back to all the wonderful days we had spent together.

I felt a stab of guilt. I had not treated Raoul well. I had thought of Erik too often. I had never even made a proper decision between the two of them. Now that I thought about it, I didn't find it surprising that Raoul had sought happiness in the arms of another woman. Surely Cecile had been better to him than I had ever been. I could only hope that they had indeed been happy, if only for a little while.

Then I felt another pang of guilt, one that was so terrible that I had to share it with someone.

"Meg..." I whispered. "It's all my fault... the accident... I shouldn't have let Raoul leave."

"It was Jean's and my fault as well," she gave back. "We should have insisted that they stayed with us. We could have given them rooms... But we didn't think of it."

"You couldn't have known," the policeman said in a surprisingly gentle voice. I had almost forgotten that he was there. "The weather turned bad so quickly... and all the snow... There were dozens of accidents on the streets last night."

I looked at him hopefully, eager to hear something that would make me feel less guilty, but he seemed to have run out of soothing words. He walked a little way down the corridor and approached a younger policeman, who was sitting on a stool next to a door. The man jumped to his feet.

"I found Mme. de Chagny," the older man told him, gesturing at me. "I'll take her and her friend to her husband."

The other man nodded.

Just then, a nurse stuck her head out of the door behind him.

"He has woken up," she said, to no one in particular. "The coachman has woken up."

"Could we speak to him first?" I asked.

I wasn't sure why I wanted to speak to a man I hardly knew, rather than seeing Raoul. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I didn't want to see Raoul at all. Seeing him would give the situation a kind of finality that I couldn't bear.

The two policemen exchanged a glance.

"Of course," the older man said eventually. "If you wish to see to him..."

The nurse opened the door wider, and we went inside. Three beds were crammed into the small room. The nurse pointed at the bed next to the window.

"Don't stay too long," she warned us before she left the room.

I approached the bed slowly, not sure whether I wanted to see the man who was responsible for the accident that had killed Raoul. The man was facing the window, but when the older policeman cleared his throat, he turned his head gingerly to look at us. My legs nearly gave way. There, scratched and bruised, but miraculously alive, lay Raoul.


	77. Chapter SeventySeven

**Chapter Seventy-Seven**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Meg reacted instantly. Just as I was threatening to sink to the floor in a faint, she pushed a chair under me. Landing on the hard wood with a little bump made me come to my senses. I no longer felt faint, but very confused. I grabbed Raoul's hand, as if to make sure that he was not an apparition, a figment of my imagination.

The hand did not vanish. It lay in mine, cold and sweaty, but it was there. I looked into Raoul's face. Now that I saw it up close, it looked even worse. There were at least a dozen scratches on his cheeks and forehead, some very small, some bigger. It was obvious that they had been cleaned, but that only made the red lines more striking in the pale face. His right cheek was bruised, and he had a black eye.

"My poor darling," I whispered, leaning towards him. "I'm so sorry. Can you remember what has happened at all?"

Raoul nodded, then groaned faintly.

"My head," he explained, wincing. "It took quite a blow... smashed against a tree, I think... It was terrible, Christine... the snow... and the horse..."

He gripped my hand firmly. I was very glad that he could speak normally, albeit slowly, and that he remembered what had happened, even though it seemed to cost him a lot of effort to put it into words.

I noticed that Raoul tried to peer over my shoulder.

"Where are... the children?" he asked.

"I didn't bring them with me," I replied. "I thought..." I paused. I couldn't tell him that we had believed him to be dead. I still couldn't understand how such a terrible mistake could have happened, and it would have certainly been too much for him. In the end, I settled for, "I didn't know how serious your injuries were, so I thought it best to leave the children at home. We'll all come and visit you another time... tomorrow, maybe."

"I'd like that," Raoul said. He tried to smile, but it looked rather painful. "How is... how is Cecile?" he then wanted to know.

"She's fine," I answered, recalling what the policeman had told me. "She's staying here in the hospital, too."

"Good..." Raoul muttered. "Good..."

A polite little cough made me turn around.

"Mme. de Chagny?" the policeman said quietly. "Would you care to step outside for a moment?"

"Don't go... not yet..." Raoul whispered.

"I'll be back in a minute," I promised, reluctantly letting go of his hand.

I stood up, and the policeman beckoned me to follow him.

"I'll stay with him," Meg announced, taking my seat.

I gave her a smile. It was comforting to know that someone was at Raoul's side, just in case.

My smile lasted until we had left the room. Then I rounded on the policeman.

"Why did you do that?" I hissed. "Telling me that my husband is dead, when he clearly isn't? Who is really dead – the coachman? Or was that a mistake as well, and no one is dead at all?"

I didn't know where all the anger was coming from all of a sudden. It had probably been boiling inside me all along, but I had suppressed it for Raoul's sake. Now that it had started pouring out of me, however, I could hardly keep myself from hitting the policeman.

"Please, Madame, calm yourself," he said, making pacifying gestures.

He looked around, but no one spared us a sideways glance. The people here either were used to such scenes, or they had other things to occupy their minds.

"I can assure you that I deeply regret this tragic mistake," he went on. "But you must understand: None of us knew the people in the coach, so we had to assume who they were from the positions we found them in. The deceased man and the young woman were lying inside the coach, whereas your husband was found in the field, as if he had fallen off the coachbox. So naturally, we thought that he was the coachman and the other two were his passengers."

I snorted. It sounded like a feeble excuse for scaring me half to death. I was only glad that I hadn't told the children about it. Who knew what a shock it would have been for them? At the end of the day, I supposed we had been somehow lucky. Raoul was alive, and that was worth more than any number of false assumptions.

"Never mind," I muttered, giving a kind of half-shrug. "Though you could have asked someone. The policemen who came to our house yesterday would have told you instantly which man was Raoul."

"You are right, Madame," the policeman acknowledged. "But none of them were in the station when we came back. You see, another child has gone missing this morning, and they had gone to investigate."

"Oh no..." I breathed, feeling an instant pang of guilt because I had only thought of myself. "Do you think it were the same people who took Clarille?"

"It's still early days," the policeman said. "And I hardly know anything about the new case, seeing that it happened so recently and I was busy with your husband's accident. As far as I'm informed, Inspector Ganá will come to speak to you this afternoon. Any questions you have, you can ask him."

I nodded.

"We may not be at Mme. Tavoire's house by then," I told him. "I think I'll take my children home soon. But the Inspector has got the address."

"I'll make sure he knows," the policeman promised. Then, glancing at the door to Raoul's room almost wistfully, he added, "I suppose it's too soon to question your husband about the accident, isn't it?"

"It is," I said firmly. "Maybe you could come back later."

"I'll do that," he agreed. "And in the meantime, I'll find out whether the coachman had any relatives."

"So it truly is the coachman who is dead?" I couldn't help asking. "You're quite sure of it?"

"I'll make sure of it," the policeman said with an almost grim expression on his face. "Once your husband feels up to it, I'll have him have a look at the deceased. I don't want any more surprises." After a moment, he added, "I do wonder why he was driving the coach."

"I don't know," I replied. "It'll be something to ask Raoul himself."

The policeman nodded.

"I'll better go now," he said. "Charles..." He indicated the young man still sitting next to the door. "...will take you and your friend home."

"That's very nice of you," I told him. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," he echoed. "And I'm very sorry for having scared you."

"It was better than the other way around," I gave back with an ironic smile.

Once the policeman was gone, I went to find a doctor. I wanted to know what exactly was wrong with Raoul and how I'd be able to help him best. It took me a while, since I hadn't been to any hospital in years, but at last, I managed to find a doctor who could tell me what I needed to know. According to his reassuring words, Raoul would be able to leave the hospital in one or two days' time. His sprained ankle would make walking difficult for him for a while, but the scratches and bruises would heal without further treatment.

Cecile appeared to have been even luckier. The doctor told me that her fall had been cushioned by the coachman's body, so she only had a few scratches and bruises. She'd be able to leave the hospital with Raoul and help him till his ankle had healed. The doctor seemed to think that she was a maid of ours, and I did not correct him. The truth would have been too complicated to discuss in a hospital corridor.

I returned to Raoul's room in high spirits. I had just stretched out my hand to open the door when it was opened from the inside.

"Oh, there you are," Meg said. "Good. I was just about to go looking for you."

"Why?" I asked in alarm. "What has happened?"

"Nothing bad," she hastened to assure me. "It's just that Raoul is trying to say something, but he's grown very tired, and I can't understand it. It seems to be important, though. He repeats it over and over."

Quickly, I went back inside with her and took my seat at Raoul's side. He looked paler than before, and his eyelids were drooping.

"What is it, darling?" I asked gently. "What do you want to say?"

He whispered something. I leaned forwards until my ear was right beside his mouth.

"The Phantom..." he breathed. "I need... to see... the Phantom..."


	78. Chapter SeventyEight

**Chapter Seventy-Eight**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I found Erik in one of the small rooms which were often used for private voice lessons. Mme. Giry had pointed it out to me, telling me that Erik usually taught Marcella there at that time of day. Meg had decided to stay with her mother. I hadn't told her what I wanted to talk to Erik about, and she seemed to think it was something private.

I slipped into the room quietly because I didn't want to interrupt the lesson. Naturally, Erik noticed me anyway. He sat at the piano, facing the door. Marcella, on the other hand, stood with her back to the door and didn't seem to hear me come in. She went on singing.

I closed the door as soundlessly as possible and leaned against the wall, listening. Erik gave me a little nod, but continued playing. I recognised the song as one we had worked on years ago. It had a simple, but beautiful melody, and Marcella sang it well. I had heard enough singers to know that she had a lot of potential. I could see why Erik had chosen to teach her.

Still, I thought I was better. At least, I had been better. I grew rather wistful as I listened to the cheerful song. I had once been a very good singer. Everyone had said so, but more importantly, I had known it myself. And now... I bit back a sigh. For years, I hadn't sung much more than the occasional lullaby for the children. Marcella's voice had certainly not reached its full potential yet, but at least she was working on it, whereas I did nothing. Perhaps she'd be better than me soon...

The song ended with a long note, and I found myself clapping. After all, Marcella had done well. It was not her fault that I was feeling a little bitter at the moment.

The girl spun around and threw me a surprised glance.

"Look, Marcella, we have a guest," Erik said, getting to his feet. "Good day, Christine. What brings you here?"

His voice sounded warm and friendly, but I couldn't help noticing that he didn't quite meet my eye. Had I done something wrong? Was he angry because I had interrupted his lesson?

"Good day, Erik... Marcella... I'm here because of... something private," I replied with a sideways glance at the girl.

"I see," Erik said. "Shall we go outside for a moment? No one will be around at this time of day. Marcella, you can use the time and have another look at the lyrics of the song. By next week, you'll have to know them by heart."

The girl nodded eagerly. As she leaned down to the sheet music, I noticed that she picked up a glass of water and took a long gulp.

As soon as the door was closed behind us, I asked,

"What will happen next week?"

Erik threw me a puzzled glance.

"You told her to learn the lyrics for next week," I explained. "Why next week?"

"Oh, it's for the audition," Erik answered. "Didn't Meg or Antoinette tell you? There'll be an audition for the smaller vocal parts in the new opera."

I frowned.

"But I thought the managers had already chosen a new opera and all those who'll perform in it," I said slowly, wondering why I knew so little about the opera these days. "Philippe told me it had all been decided weeks ago, before you came back."

"Precisely. Before I came back," Erik remarked. Even with his new mask, there was something so ´Opera Ghost´ like about him that I felt the urge to duck, afraid of being hit by a chandelier. "The opera which the managers had chosen was dreadful," he went on dismissively. "No artistic value whatsoever. I won't have it performed on my stage. But Paul – Paul Deboile, the new conductor – has written a lovely little opera. Well, two, really, but we've decided to perform that one first. It's an adaptation of one of Goldoni's most delightful comedies, and there's the role of a maid, just made for Marcella."

I listened to him with a little smile on my face. I hadn't seen Erik that enthusiastic in years. It made him appear much younger. Still, there was something peculiar about his story. When he drew breath, I seized the chance to address the subject.

"I don't understand why you need an audition at all," I told him. "If Marcella is ideal for the role, why don't you just give it to her? Don't tell me that you no longer have the authority. If you can change the entire opera, surely you can give roles to whomever you please."

"Of course I could do it," Erik gave back, looking rather indignant. "But I don't want to. If Marcella can't win the role with her talent, the other singers will never take her seriously. They'll talk behind her back. They'll never accept her as one of them."

"You never used to care about popularity," I reminded him. "You always said that the only thing that mattered was that I sang well."

I still had vivid images in my mind of Carlotta looking down at me, muttering insults in Italian. The snide remarks of some of the chorus girls hadn't been too pleasant either.

"Marcella is different," Erik claimed, an unreadable expression on his face.

I nodded, not sure what kind of reaction he expected from me. The truth was that I didn't know enough about Marcella to tell whether she was different. Different from whom, anyway? Me? The chorus girls? Other singers? I couldn't help feeling annoyed because he cared so much about that girl.

A minute or two passed in a rather uncomfortable silence. Erik was watching me all the time. At last, he gave a little shake of his head and remarked,

"But I don't think you've come here to discuss Marcella's progress as a singer, have you? Why are you here? Is it something about Clarille? I was very glad to hear that she has been returned to you safely."

He gave me a warm smile. His arms twitched upwards a little, and for a moment, I was sure that he wanted to embrace me. Yet it didn't happen. Erik merely gave me a friendly little slap on the shoulder, as if I were a horse that had done well.

"Yes, we are all very glad," I replied, adopting a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "But it's not her I wanted to talk about. It's Raoul." In a few sentences, I told Erik about the accident. I left out the whole confusion about Raoul and the coachman. I didn't feel that it was very important at the moment. Moreover, I didn't want to talk about the paralysing fear I had felt. It was not the right moment.

"So the Vicomte wants to talk to me?" Erik asked. He didn't sound very enthusiastic. In fact, I suspected that he'd have sounded more enthusiastic if I had told him to supervise the chorus girls' practice.

"Yes," I replied.

"Why?" he wanted to know warily.

"I have no idea," I answered truthfully. "He was too exhausted to say anything more. He fell asleep right afterwards. I don't think you should go and visit him before the afternoon. If you want to go and visit him at all, that is..."

Erik shrugged, looking – if possible – even less enthusiastic than before.

"I suppose I could take my afternoon walk in the direction of the hospital," he said slowly. "Though I have to warn you: If the Vicomte only wants me there so he can taunt me comfortably while lying in bed, he might end up with more injuries than he began with."

I threw him a stern glance. Since I hadn't told him about Raoul and the coachman, he couldn't know what a sensitive subject Raoul's injuries were, but I still didn't find it too amusing.

"I'm sure it's something important," I said. "Raoul wouldn't want to see you if it wasn't."

"True," Erik acknowledged.

Another minute passed in silence. I had delivered my message, so I could have left, but somehow, I didn't feel like it. Without thinking, I asked,

"Would you like to come to dinner tonight? I'm sure the children would love to see you."

I wasn't altogether certain why I asked him. I guessed it had something to do with his strange behaviour and my wish to know what was behind it.

Given that I had thought it was a simple question, Erik took long to answer it. He stared into space, frowning, for what felt like an hour before he replied,

"Yes... yes, I'd like to come."

I smiled.

"Be there around seven," I told him. "You'll meet Mme. Marandette, too. She's my landlady."

Erik nodded.

"I'll be there," he promised. Then pointing at the door, he added,

"Would you like to stay a little longer? Marcella has to get used to singing in front of an audience. Or else you could sing a duet with her. I've got a few nice duets for two sopranos."

"No, thank you," I said. "I really have to go and look after the children. And then there's dinner to prepare. We will see each other later. Don't forget Raoul!"

"I won't," he said, lifting his hand in farewell. "I promise."


	79. Chapter SeventyNine

**Author's note:** I'm ever so sorry for the delay. I've had this chapter all planned in my head for weeks, but I didn't have the time to write it down.

**Chapter Seventy-Nine**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

Lying in hospital was very dull. When I had woken up from a long sleep, I had been brought to a new room at once, a handsome big room which I didn't share with anyone else. It had been quite amusing to see how differently everybody was treating me, now that they no longer believed that I was a mere coachman. A nurse had tried to explain it all to me, but she had had such a squeaky voice that my head had begun to ache again.

Fortunately, my head had stopped aching once she had left. My leg felt strangely stiff in its bandage and was throbbing slightly, but apart from that, I was all right. Well, not quite all right. The blow to the head seemed to have been worse than ever the doctors suspected. That was the only explanation as to why I was lying here, waiting for the Phantom.

I had had another visitor that afternoon. A little while after I had got my new room, there had been a knock on the door, and Cecile had come in. She had looked terrible, her pale face and arms scratched and bruised, but at least she hadn't broken or sprained anything.

It had been a fairly short visit. Cecile had been very subdued and had hardly spoken a word. It seemed that she had only come to tell me that she wouldn't leave the hospital before I could, for she was mortally afraid of being in the house alone. Even as I thought about it now, I felt guilty. The poor girl had gone through enough when her uncle had died all of a sudden. Now I had added the dreadful experience of having someone die right beside her. I was to blame for it. I should have known that I couldn't have driven the coach myself, not in the dark and in such weather.

It would have been easy to be angry at Gerard because he had drunk too much, not caring how we'd get home. It would have been too easy. Gerard had been thoughtless, yes, but he had paid a terrible price for it. The guilt of being responsible for his death added to the leaden weight already resting on my chest.

While I was pondering, the sky outside the window turned purple, then dark blue. There was a lamp on my bedside table, but I couldn't muster the energy to light it. My sombre thoughts didn't need any light. On the contrary, they felt more comfortable in the dark.

I stared out into the dark sky, feeling miserable and very lonely. It was feeble comfort that Christine had promised to visit me with the children the next day. To tell the truth, I was even a little afraid of it. Christine had been perfectly lovely, but that would change quickly once she'd have realised what I had done. And what would the children say?

I buried my face in the pillow and closed my eyes, but try as I might, I couldn't go to sleep – not after I had slept half the afternoon. I didn't know what else I could do. The Phantom would not come today, that much was certain. He had either forgotten what Christine had told him, or he hadn't thought it important enough to respond immediately. I grumbled a few unfriendly words into my pillow. Did that man think I'd ask for him if it wasn't important?

"My, my, Vicomte," a voice rang through the room. "Such language! Is that the way to greet an old friend?"

With a little groan, I turned my head in the direction of the door. I was startled to see the Phantom already standing next to my bed, illuminated by the lamp he had just lit. It was beyond me how he could move that soundlessly.

"I'm not your friend," I said shortly.

"You're not?" he asked. "I thought you must be, given that you were so desperate to see me."

I gave another groan, wishing I could have spoken to someone else, anyone else. Even the nurse with the squeaky voice would have been preferable.

With enormous difficulties, I pushed myself into a sitting position. My injured ankle was throbbing again, but I tried to ignore it. I couldn't let the Phantom see me lying there like a little child. Somehow, I had to make him take me seriously.

"I was not desperate to see you," I corrected him icily. "And if I want visitors, I choose them from the people who truly are my friends."

"Then why am I here?" he wanted to know. "My time is precious, Vicomte. I've got an opera to run. There are people who depend on my help and advice."

"That young singer, you mean?" I asked. "Where is she, anyway?"

"I left her with Mme. Giry," he replied. "I thought that if you had something important to tell me, you'd rather do so alone with me. I guess I was wrong. There is nothing important, is there? You just wanted to steal my time."

He threw me a contemptuous glance and turned to leave.

"Wait!" I called. I could hardly believe that I actually told that man not to go. Under normal circumstances, I'd have been more than happy to see him leave. Yet these were anything but normal circumstances. "I want to talk to you," I added. "And it is important."

The Phantom turned back to face me.

"Talk, then," he said.

He still sounded reluctant, but I thought I saw a spark of curiosity in his eyes. As I looked at him, I wondered vaguely whether I was the only one who didn't regard the new mask as an improvement of his appearance. In a way, I thought it made him look even less human.

"Talk," he repeated impatiently, and I realised that I had been staring at him without speaking.

I tried to pull myself together.

"It's Clarille," I said.

At last, I had got his attention. Hardly taking his eyes off me, he fetched a chair and sat down next to my bed.

"You have a theory as to who is her father?" he asked.

"What?" I muttered, wrong-footed. "No, no. I mean... there is no way of finding out, is there?"

The Phantom shook his head, looking defeated.

"If there was one, I'd know," he said. "I just thought... But that is neither here nor there. What is it you've got to tell me?"

"You may not know it, but I was among the first people who saw Clarille after the cook found her," I began. "She was wrapped in a dirty blanket. When I had a look at it, a note fell out. It read... But you can see it for yourself. I put it into the pocket of my trousers. It still ought to be there."

I pointed at the wardrobe next to the door, where I knew the nurse had put my clothes. The Phantom got up and walked over to it. After a minute or two, he returned, the piece of paper in his hand. I saw him frown as he held it to the light.

"Does Christine know about it?" he asked, sitting back down.

For a moment, I quite forgot my condition and shook my head vigorously, which turned out to be a rather bad idea. My head felt like a cork rising and falling in a bucket of water. With a grunt of pain, I sank back into the pillow.

The Phantom waited calmly till I had recovered. He didn't ask how I was or offered to help me, but at least he didn't taunt me either, which I took as a good sign. It was more than I could have hoped for.

"She doesn't know about it," I replied, once my head felt normal again. "She was upset enough. I thought about telling the police, but they'd only end up telling Christine, and she'd be even more upset. I wanted to find out more about it myself, but..." I gestured at my leg. "I can't do much at the moment, especially not if it involves moving. So I thought of you. You know the kind of people who'd do such a thing, don't you?"

It was a daring approach, but the Phantom didn't seem to take it as an insult. He merely moved his head from side to side, as if deep in thought. At last, he asked,

"What do you want me to do? If I decide to help you, that is..."

"You could ask around, find out why someone would want to hurt Christine," I answered. "And if you find out who is responsible... well, we can still tell the police then."

The Phantom didn't look convinced, so I went on talking.

"We've worked together once before," I reminded him. "We did it because Christine needed us. Now she needs us again, even though she doesn't know it. I don't want you to help me. It's all about helping her. Will you do it?"

He nodded slowly.

"I'll see what I can do," he said. "As long as I am still in Paris, that is..."


	80. Chapter Eighty

**Chapter Eighty**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

Antoinette, Philippe and I spent most of the afternoon in a variety of shops, buying everything we'd need for the meal with Erik. Of course, I could have sent Jacqueline shopping instead of leaving her at home to care for Clarille, but I enjoyed making the preparations for dinner myself and spending some time with my older children. Besides, it felt safer to leave Clarille indoors for a while, especially since there was a policeman outside the door.

As always, Antoinette chatted without pause as we walked down the road. Her thoughts jumped from suddenly having a sister to having a sister who had disappeared and back with amazing speed. I knew that she was yearning to tell her friends at the opera all about it, and I tried my best to stifle her enthusiasm a little. Meg and I had agreed that we'd continue telling the story that we had told the police, namely that Clarille had been my daughter all along and that we had never wanted to deceive anyone, and it would have undermined our credibility if Antoinette had walked around, telling everyone the truth.

Philippe didn't talk as much as Antoinette, but then, he never did. I was quite certain that he thought about his new sister as well, but he didn't share his thoughts with us. The only thing he did talk about was Erik.

"And you're sure that he'll come?" he asked me for the third time.

"Yes, I am," I replied calmly. "He promised. You know that Uncle Erik keeps his promises."

"But will he come with Marcella or without her?" Philippe went on.

"I don't know," I told him. "He didn't say. I'll just buy enough food for both of them. And if Marcella doesn't come, the rest of us will have more to eat."

The children laughed. Philippe had lately started eating more and more, which was a very good thing, seeing that he had grown several inches over the past few months. Antoinette always ate a lot, but she never put on weight because she was jumping and dancing all the time. Even now, she was running along the street instead of walking properly. I knew that other mothers would have stopped her and told her to behave like a little lady, but I thought there'd be enough time for that later. I was glad that she was such a cheerful child.

The last shop on my list was the fishmongers. Antoinette refused to go inside with Philippe and me, for she didn't like the strong smell of fish. However, I made her stand right in front of the window, so I could see her all the time while I bought the fish. Antoinette didn't argue. She understood why I wanted to keep my children close to me.

I bought more than enough fish for all of us. The only one I didn't have to get anything for was Mme. Marandette, because she wouldn't eat with us. She had plans to go to the theatre and have supper with old friends of hers. She had told me that given the excitement of the previous night, she'd have rather stayed at home, but her friends came all the way from Marseille and would only stay in Paris for a couple of days. She couldn't bring herself to disappointing them.

Once Philippe and I were outside the shop again, I took out my list and made sure I had everything on it. Then we set off back home. Antoinette insisted that we walked past a shop that sold various clothes and other items for dancers.

"Just a few more weeks till Christmas," she reminded me cheerfully, gazing longingly at the beautiful pieces of fabric displayed in the window. "I'd like to have a skirt in that shade of yellow and one of those –"

"Maman," Philippe said all of a sudden. It was so unusual that he interrupted anyone, least of all his sister, that we both stared at him. "Maman, where are we going to celebrate Christmas this year?" he asked. "And with whom?"

I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it again. It was a question that required some good thinking.

It struck me as peculiar that I hadn't thought about the topic before, given that Christmas was so close. But then, so many things had happened ever since Erik had returned. Maybe it was not so peculiar after all. I had simply had other things on my mind.

Yet now that I thought about it, I couldn't help seeing a number of problems. The year before, we had celebrated Christmas with Meg, Jean and Michel at their house. Raoul had come to visit us on Christmas Day and had stayed for dinner. Things had been a little awkward between him and me, but with so many people around us, there had been no time for difficult situations.

This year, however, it would be very different. There was not only Raoul to consider, but also Erik. I couldn't invite both of them... or could I? And what about Cecile and Marcella? I didn't feel like inviting them to celebrate Christmas with us, but I couldn't leave them out either. On the one hand, more people meant less awkwardness, as I had learned the year before. Yet on the other hand, if I invited Erik and Raoul at the same time, they'd only argue. I let out a little sigh, wishing things would be simple for once.

"Well, Maman?" Philippe prompted me. He had not taken his eyes off me once while I had been pondering. The intensity of his gaze strongly reminded me of Erik. He had taught his little pupil well.

"I'm sure that Meg and Jean will invite us to celebrate with them again," I replied, deciding to start with the easy part of the answer. "You enjoyed celebrating with them last year, didn't you?"

The children nodded.

"Will Aunt Antoinette be there as well?" my daughter wanted to know.

"I think she'll be there," I answered.

"But what about Papa and Uncle Erik?" Philippe persisted. "Will they both come, too?"

Yes, Erik had definitely taught the boy well. I just wasn't sure whether that was such a good thing.

"Why don't we just ask them?" I suggested. "Yes, we'll ask them, and if they want to come, they can come."

Secretly, I thought it best to talk to Erik and Raoul alone and ask them about their plans for Christmas. Perhaps they'd agree to come on different days or at least different times of the same day.

My answer seemed to be good enough for Philippe at last, for he didn't pursue the matter any further. As we made our way home, we talked about presents instead, which was a topic both children enjoyed very much. I was confident that I'd be able to fulfil their wishes. Raoul gave me more than enough money. He had never been miserly.

When we returned home, I sent the children to their rooms to play and went to check on Clarille. My heart leapt in my chest as I saw her sitting on the carpet in the nursery, playing with Jacqueline.

The maid looked up as I entered the room.

"Ah, Mme. de Chagny," she greeted me, smiling. "Did you get everything you wanted?"

I nodded.

"Would you like me to help you prepare dinner?" she wanted to know.

"No, thank you," I replied, leaning down and kissing Clarille on the top of her head. "I think I can manage alone. But it would be very friendly if you could keep an eye on Clarille and make sure that Antoinette and Philippe change into their good clothes later."

Jacqueline promised that she'd do it, and I left the room again, going straight into the kitchen. Buying the ingredients had taken longer than I had anticipated. There wasn't all that much time left.

I had decided on a simple dish, which had the advantage that I could prepare it myself without help. I was sure that Meg would have been ready to send Larisse over for the evening, but I preferred cooking alone for a change. After all, I wasn't such a bad cook. The years in which others had prepared my meals had just made me lazy. I had moved very far away from the simple Swedish chorus girl I had once been.

For most of the time while I peeled potatoes, chopped vegetables and fried fish, I was lost in thought about my days at the opera. It had been a good time, even though I had often felt anxious, miserable or simply exhausted. The opera had been my home.

I had a new home now, one that I loved very much, but I couldn't help wishing I were still a singer. Meg had been happy enough to give up dancing when she had been expecting Michel, I reminded myself. But then, things were different in her case. She had had almost a decade of being a very successful dancer, much more than I had ever had. And once Michel was old enough and Mme. Giry was ready to retire, Meg would return to the opera as ballet mistress. Meg knew where she was going in life. And where was I going?

A sudden knock on the door interrupted my musings.

"Mme. de Chagny?" Jacqueline called. "Mme. de Chagny, didn't you hear the doorbell? M. Erik is here."

I looked down at myself in alarm. The food was nearly done, but I had been so busy with my thoughts that I hadn't managed to get changed. My hair was a mess, and there were stains on my skirt. Never mind going back to the opera – the only place I had to go now was a bathroom.


	81. Chapter EightyOne

**Chapter Eighty-One**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

"Good evening, Christine. You look charming tonight."

I beamed at Erik, even though I knew he couldn't be serious. I had barely had the time to run a comb through my hair before the children had come downstairs, excited that Erik had arrived and demanding my attention. Still, I thought it was very polite of Erik to pretend not to notice the stains on my skirt.

"Good evening, Erik," I gave back, trying to glance over his shoulder without appearing curious.

I should have known better than to hope Erik wouldn't notice. Of course, he knew straight away who I was looking for. He gave me a little smile.

"I left Marcella with Mme. Giry," he explained. "There's an evening rehearsal tonight, which I thought would be interesting for her. She wants to learn more about the opera. And afterwards, the chorus girls will have a little celebration. One of them is turning eighteen. They've invited Marcella, too."

It would have been interesting to know if Erik had made them invite Marcella, but I couldn't ask such a delicate question in front of the children. So I just smiled and said nothing. I couldn't help being a little relieved that Marcella was not here tonight. She was a nice enough girl, but when she was there, the atmosphere between Erik and me changed in a way I didn't like at all.

"Look what Uncle Erik brought us," Antoinette said excitedly, thrusting a box under my nose. It contained a layer of exquisite chocolates.

"Thank you," I told him. "I'm sure they taste lovely."

"They do," Antoinette admitted. "Philippe and I have already tried them."

I laughed.

"In that case, you'll better go and wash your hands again before dinner," I advised them. "And I'll take these chocolates for the moment. You can have some more later."

The children nodded meekly and made their way to the bathroom.

"I hope it wasn't wrong to give them chocolate," Erik said. "They insisted on trying them to find out whether they were good enough for you."

I laughed again. It sounded just like the kind of story Antoinette would tell.

"It was quite all right," I assured him. "A little chocolate every now and then can work wonders."

Erik smiled.

"Why don't you have one yourself then?" he suggested.

"I'd love to, but I have to check on my food in the kitchen," I replied. "Will you excuse me for a moment?"

"Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked.

"No, no," I answered. "You're the guest. Just go through to the dining room and make yourself at home. It's just over there."

Erik left, and I rushed back into the kitchen, hoping that the additional minutes on the stove had not ruined the fish. Fortunately, it looked just as good as it had done before. I put it onto a large platter and spooned potatoes and vegetables into bowls.

Just when I was finished, Jacqueline came into the kitchen to tell me that she had shepherded Antoinette and Philippe at the table when she had brought Clarille there. Together, we carried the food into the dining room, where everyone was already waiting. I gave Jacqueline a grateful smile as I realised that she had not only looked after the children, but also found the time to lay the table.

Jacqueline and I sat down. Jacqueline's seat was between Antoinette and Philippe. I sat between Clarille and a chair that was sometimes occupied by Mme. Marandette. Today, Erik sat there. He seemed delighted about the seating arrangements, and I found them rather pleasant, too.

Dinnertime was always cheerful in our house. We didn't often have lunch together, for Antoinette and Philippe usually spent that time at their teachers' houses, but in the evening, we were all together again, and the children had a lot to tell me.

Naturally, the children hadn't been at their teachers' today, but that didn't keep them from being noisy and cheerful. The presence of Erik was at least as good as anything that could have happened during their lessons.

Erik was a charming guest. He praised my food with so much enthusiasm that it made me blush. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it as well. Even Clarille ate the mixture of potatoes, vegetables and small parts of fish with gusto, sometimes helped by me. Apart from the occasional cough or sneeze, she appeared to be perfectly healthy and content.

When we had finished the main course, I served dessert. It was a lovely dark chocolate pudding, which my children were very fond of. Erik liked it, too. He even had a second helping. I couldn't help feeling a little proud of myself because everyone enjoyed the food I had prepared. I decided to prepare our meals more often in the future.

After dinner, we continued sitting together, and Erik entertained us with stories. At first, I was a little afraid that I'd grow wistful again if Erik talked about the opera, but it quickly turned out I needn't have worried. He didn't mention the opera at all. Instead, he told us stories about his travels, about foreign countries and places that almost seemed like dreams.

Erik was an excellent storyteller. He described each scene so well that I felt as if I had been there myself. But he was sensitive, too. More than once, I had the impression that he changed his story halfway through because he sensed that it was getting too exciting for Philippe. Yet at the same time, he managed to make it interesting enough to keep Antoinette fascinated. Even Clarille, who was sitting on my lap by now, was listening attentively. I wasn't sure how much she understood of the actual story, but she clearly loved Erik's voice.

I found myself particularly fascinated by a story set in India, where Erik had spent a few months the previous year. He had lived in a small village, and everyone had believed him to be a magician. They had treated him with great reverence and had even asked him for advice every now and then.

"One day, I was sitting in front of my hut in the afternoon, enjoying the good weather, when the villagers brought me a snake," he said.

"A snake?" Antoinette and Philippe repeated together, their mouths curling in distaste.

I threw Erik a warning glance, but he shook his head slightly, assuring me without words that he wouldn't frighten the children.

"Yes, a snake," he replied calmly. "More precisely, a cobra. As you may or may not know, it is a tradition in India and other countries to put snakes in baskets and make them dance for an audience, while the snake-charmer plays the flute and receives a small sum of money."

Antoinette and Philippe leaned forward in their seats, eager to hear more. I could tell that their momentary repulsion had passed. Erik had been right.

"Well, that particular cobra refused to dance," he went on. "That was why they brought it to me. The snake-charmed was a big, bald man with a bushy black beard. I could hardly see his lips as he spoke. ´I give this wretched snake one last chance,´ he told me. ´If you don't make it dance, I'll just hit it over the head with a stone and sell its hide.´"

The children jumped and winced. They didn't like snakes very much, but they didn't want to hear about one being killed either.

"Erik, I don't think – " I began, but Erik reached across the table and patted my hand reassuringly, smiling at me. Then he went on.

"I told the man that I'd make his cobra dance again," he said. "But only if I'd be allowed to keep it afterwards. The man agreed. He didn't need the snake, you know. He was quite rich. He just didn't like being teased. The whole village was talking about the man who couldn't make his snake dance."

He looked at me and gave me a suggestive little wink. I chuckled like a little girl.

"Anyway," Erik went on after a moment. I could see that he tried hard to grow serious again. "By then, a whole crowd had gathered around me. I asked them to leave me alone for a while, and they left, eager for a good performance later. Then I had the chance to get a proper look at the cobra. It was quite big, but its eyes were small and beady. Those eyes... they were full of a deep sadness. So I spoke to the snake."

"You spoke to it?" Antoinette interrupted. "What did you say? Did it reply?"

"Don't be so curious," Erik chided gently. "You'll find out in time. I spoke to the snake for a few minutes, and when the audience returned, I put it back into its basket. I picked up the flute which the snake-charmer had left me, and – "

"Did the snake dance?" Antoinette asked eagerly.

"Of course it did," Erik replied smoothly. "It came out of the basket and danced for me, proud and strong. The audience clapped and laughed. They wanted the performance to go on and on, but after a while, I sensed that it was enough for the snake. I stopped playing, and it stopped dancing. Everyone clapped again and thanked me. They had seen what they had wanted to see."

"So... what did you tell the snake to make it dance?" Philippe wanted to know.

Erik smiled.

"I told it that once it had danced one last time, I'd let it go," he said. "The snake liked dancing, you know. It just didn't like being locked up in a small basket all day, with no means of escape. When all the people from the village had left, I took the cobra into the forest and set it free. I never saw it again."

Erik bowed his head, and we knew that the story was over.

Antoinette, Philippe and Jacqueline broke into applause. I would have clapped with them, but Clarille had fallen asleep on my lap, and I couldn't move my arms properly. I handed her over to Jacqueline, so I could get up.

"Off you go to bed," I told my children. "And no arguing, Antoinette. Your teacher expects you tomorrow at nine, and you know that she doesn't approve of you yawning all the time."

"All right," Antoinette agreed reluctantly. "But only if Uncle Erik tells me a bed-time story."

"I want a bed-time story, too," Philippe joined in at once.

Erik's smile widened.

"Of course," he said. "Of course."


	82. Chapter EightyTwo

**Chapter Eighty-Two**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

It took Erik about half a dozen more stories to get the children into bed. Fortunately, he seemed to have many more of them in store. He didn't even pause to think as Antoinette pressed him for more and more elaborate details in a story about a famous Greek dancer, until she finally fell asleep in mid-sentence.

"My bedtime stories will never be good enough again," I told him as we left Antoinette's room. "From now on, Antoinette and Philippe will demand you as their storyteller every night."

"I wouldn't mind," Erik gave back seriously. "You know that I enjoy telling stories, and your children are such a nice audience. I only wish – "

"Yes?" I prompted.

Erik gave me a sideways glance.

"I wish I had arrived a little earlier today," he said. "I didn't get to see much of Clarille. Not while she was still awake, anyway."

I nodded. It was true that Clarille had fallen asleep halfway through Erik's story and had not woken up again, not even when Jacqueline had brought her to bed.

"Would you like to see her again?" I asked. "I always check on her before I go to bed. I know that Jacqueline is taking proper care of her, of course, but... you know..."

Erik gave my shoulder a light squeeze to show that he understood my need to see my girl, especially on a day like that.

We made our way down the corridor, past the room of Philippe, who had fallen asleep after only two additional stories, and to the nursery.

"You've found a lovely new home, Christine," Erik remarked. "It has so many rooms."

I chose not to comment. Yes, there were many rooms, but most of them, particularly the children's bedrooms, were very small. Erik must have noticed that, too. I was very grateful that he was too polite to point it out.

We only paid Clarille a brief visit, for we didn't want to wake her up. Jacqueline was already slumbering in her bed in the corner, so Erik and I didn't speak. Yet even in the dim light that spilled into the nursery from the corridor, I didn't fail to notice that special glow on Erik's face when he looked at Clarille. I knew that he desperately wanted her to be his daughter. It was his chance, long after he had given up hope of ever being a father. It almost made me weep that I couldn't tell him whose daughter she was. It was one thing not to know it myself, but I felt it was far harder to bear for Erik. At least I knew that she was _my_ child.

After a few minutes, he managed to prise himself away from Clarille's little bed and left the room with me. He didn't say anything, but the glow was still on his face. I smiled at him, but couldn't quite stifle a yawn. It had been a very long day with quite a few surprises, both pleasant and unpleasant.

"It's getting late," Erik said at once. "I should be on my way to the opera."

"No," I replied without thinking. It was such a nice evening. I didn't want it to end yet. "I mean," I added, my cheeks flushing. "Don't let me keep you. I'm sure there are a lot of things waiting to be done at the opera, and Marcella will be there, too. So if you've got to go..."

"Actually," Erik said. "The celebration won't be over until eleven, maybe even midnight, and it's only nine now. If you'd rather have me stay a little longer..."

"Well... if you'd like to stay..." I mumbled, wondering why I felt like a shy little girl. It had to be something about the atmosphere of finding myself alone with Erik.

"Yes, I would," Erik replied, and we exchanged a sheepish grin.

"We could go and have a glass of wine in the living room," I suggested. "It's not very comfortable, I'm afraid, not like the rooms you're used to. And I don't have a library or anything of the sort either. Not like Meg."

I blushed furiously as I realised how my words could be interpreted. I had made it sound as if I was eager to go someplace comfortable with Erik in order to seduce him. Belatedly, I noticed that it had been Raoul I had been with in the library. Erik couldn't know about it... or could he? I was not sure. He knew so much.

"I'm sure the living room is a very nice place to be," Erik said politely. I was sure that he had noticed my obvious discomfort, but he didn't comment on it. "And a glass of wine would be lovely. But we could also do... something else."

He gave me a knowing smile, and I felt my face grow very hot indeed. Could it be that he had guessed what I had been thinking about before? Was that what he wanted to do with me? And what did I want myself? How could he expect me to make up my mind that quickly?

"I've seen the way you looked at me, Christine," Erik went on in a low voice. "I know what you want. I've known it right from the first moment. You can't fool me. You know that."

I nodded. I had never been able to hide anything from him, not even my mood or my feelings.

"We can do it right here," Erik continued. "Or we could meet at the opera. If you're afraid it might wake up the children, that is..."

"No, no," I hastened to assure him, anxious that he'd leave if I said something wrong. "It'll be fine here."

Erik's smile widened.

"I was hoping you'd say that," he told me. "We've lost so much time already. Now all we need is a piano."

"A piano?" I repeated, wrong-footed. What on earth did he need a piano for?

"Yes, a piano," he replied patiently. "But it doesn't matter if you haven't got one here. I can just sing the melody for you to repeat, the way we sometimes did during rehearsals, when no piano was available. Here, I've brought all the sheet music we'll need."

He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out several tightly folded sheets of paper.

I felt as if someone had hit me over the head with a brick.

"You want to sing with me?" I asked faintly.

"Yes, of course," he answered, as though it was obvious. "I noticed how enviously you looked at Marcella and me when we practiced. So I brought something to sing for you. It's a wonderful song. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

I nodded vaguely and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. I hadn't noticed before how excited I had become. Had Erik's words really been as suggestive as I had thought them to be? Or had I just been eager to get closer to him, which had made me read more into a perfectly innocuous situation? I didn't know which one was true, and I could hardly ask Erik for assistance.

After I had taken another deep breath, I was finally able to give a proper reply.

"There is no piano here," I explained. "Mme. Marandette has one downstairs, and she lets Philippe practice on it whenever he wants to in the afternoons, but we can't use it now. She's not at home, and anyway, it would be much too loud."

Erik nodded.

"You're right," he said. "I don't want to wake up the children. But we could still sing a little. We could take a song you already know. I've brought one of them, too." He patted his pocket.

"That would be nice," I answered, hoping that I sounded more enthusiastic than I felt. It was hard to muster much excitement when I kept thinking of what might have happened instead.

Determinedly, I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. I was surprised and even shocked about myself. It had been a long time since I had thought about Erik in such a way. It was very peculiar how strongly I had responded when I had thought he had made me an offer of that kind. Was I really that desperate for affection?

Still, singing was not so bad either. And most important of all, it was far less confusing than the other option.

"We can go into the living room," I told Erik. "As long as we're not too loud, the children won't hear us."

"All right," Erik agreed, smiling.

We tiptoed past the rooms in which the children slept and back along the corridor to the living room. It was a rather small room, full of bookshelves and overstuffed sofas. I was afraid that my voice wouldn't sound very good in such a room, but Erik didn't seem to mind.

"This will do nicely," he remarked. "It doesn't matter that we haven't got a piano here, at least not at the moment. We can practice another time at the opera, if you wish."

"I'd like to do that," I gave back. "But you won't have enough time. You're teaching Marcella and Philippe already."

Erik walked up to me and brushed my cheek with his fingertips.

"For you, Christine," he said in a low voice. "I always have time."

I beamed at him. For a moment, I was sure that he'd lean down and kiss me, but he turned away abruptly and handed me the sheet music.

"Shall we start?" he asked.


	83. Chapter EightyThree

**Author's note:** I'm ever so sorry that I didn't get around to writing this chapter sooner. The past few weeks have taught me two things: 1) Being the only healthy person in the family means a lot of work. 2) Being the only ill person in the family after everyone else has recovered isn't much fun either. ;-)

**Chapter Eighty-Three**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

I had quite forgotten how wonderful it was to sing with Christine. There were things that even years without teaching couldn't erase, and a considerable amount of talent was one of them. Even though it had been more than a decade since we had last practiced the song I had chosen for this evening, it only took Christine one attempt to sing it along.

And her voice... oh, it was just like I remembered it. True, it was clearly audible that her last lesson had been a long time ago, but the important things were still there, and Christine seemed eager to continue improving her voice. I was confident that with a few months' regular lessons, I could have brought her back to the stage of the opera without problems.

At that point, I couldn't help letting out a deep sigh. For a few moments, I had forgotten that Christine didn't want to return to the stage. As far as I knew, she wasn't even interested in regular lessons. To her, singing was nothing but an after-dinner pastime now.

Christine stopped singing in mid-phrase and looked at me anxiously.

"What is wrong, Erik?" she asked. "Was I that bad?"

"What?" I muttered, cursing myself because I hadn't sighed more quietly. "Oh no, no. It had nothing to do with your singing. Well, not exactly..."

My voice trailed off as I pondered what to say to her. Once more, I realised how little I knew about her these days. There had been times when I had known all about her, but those were long gone. I didn't know whether my observations about her voice and how regrettable it was that she didn't want to use it on a professional level anymore would make her feel flattered, sad or even angry.

"Oh Erik, do tell me," Christine insisted. "You've never held back your opinion before. I know I wasn't singing too well, but you have to bear in mind how long it has been since the last time I worked on such a difficult piece. It's bound to take some time till I'll sing as well as I used to."

"Yes, yes, of course," I agreed hastily. I couldn't bear to hear her justify herself, especially since she had done nothing wrong. "Your singing was quite delightful, my dear. That was precisely the reason why I sighed."

Christine frowned, and I knew I had to explain more. Otherwise, she'd never understand it or – even worse – she'd suspect that I wasn't honest to her.

"Shall we sit down for a moment?" I suggested.

Christine nodded, and we sat down on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

"So?" she prompted gently when I didn't start explaining straight away.

"Oh, it's not easy," I began. "Hearing your voice again after such a long time... Christine, you have no idea how great you could have been if you had gone on performing on stage. A year, maybe less, and I'd have brought you to every important opera house in Europe. You'd have been one of the best singers in the world. You've got so much talent... A thousand other girls would kill just to have a fraction of it! And you... you just left..."

I closed my mouth quickly, realising that in my agitation, I had gone much too far. When I looked at Christine, I saw that her eyes were shining with tears.

"So you think I've wasted my talent?" she asked in a small voice. "You think I should have chosen a life on stage instead of a live with marriage and children?"

I tried to take her hand, to console her, but she snatched it away.

"It's all very well for you men," she went on, her voice rising in anger. "You can father a dozen children and still continue working. You can go out, meet new people and enjoy yourselves, while women have to stay at home, cooking your meals and looking after the children!"

Even after she was finished, I was too shocked to reply. I wondered for how long those feelings had been locked up inside Christine, waiting to burst out on the first occasion. I was also aware that her speech had by no means been directed at me in particular. After all, my position as Opera Ghost was all I had. I had no social life to speak of, let alone a dozen children at home.

I waited for a little while, but Christine seemed to have run out of steam. I decided to speak.

"You're right," I told her. "And I'll have you know that there are organisations which think that women ought to have the same rights as men. I even went to a few of their meetings when I stayed in England. But I don't think that's what this is about, is it? It's about you."

Christine nodded. Her cheeks still had an angry red colour, but she appeared calmer than before. She looked at me, and there was a kind of quiet despair in her eyes that scared me.

"I feel as if I can't do anything right," she said in a low voice. "First, I was a singer, and I guess I was a good one. But I chose to leave the stage. I know that many people were angry at me: the managers, you, of course... I became a wife, but I wasn't any good at it either. I made terrible mistakes. I drove away the two men who truly loved me. Then I was a mother only, but... I can't seem to fulfil that task properly either. Clarille was taken from me, and I still don't know who did it or why. Am I a complete failure?"

For a moment, I couldn't do anything but shake my head frantically. If I had known what a strong reaction my words would cause, I'd have never opened my mouth at all. But now it was too late to take back what I had said. I had to help Christine. I had to say something that would make her feel better about herself.

"Of course you're not a failure," I began. "You must know that. You've done so many things right in your life. You've been a wonderful singer, and you still are. You have three lovely children. It's more than other women achieve in all their life."

I made a second attempt to take her hand. This time, she didn't pull it away.

"I am sorry," I went on. "I didn't mean to offend you. I respect the choices you've made. I just wanted to tell you how lucky you are to have such talent."

Christine threw me a glance that made it very clear that I was not helping much.

"I do know all that," she muttered. "But that only makes it harder for me. I love my children with all my heart, but they won't be little forever. I have to think about what I'll do once they're older. Everyone else knows what they'll do with their lives. Meg will take over Mme. Giry's position at the opera, Jacqueline and Gabriel will get married and have a family of their own, and I'm sure that Marielle will get married before long, too. And I? I don't have a husband, and I don't have a career either. What will I do?"

It was such a tempting situation. It would have been so easy to take Christine into my arms, to kiss her and promise her that it would all be all right. My arms were itching to do it. But I managed to pull myself together. Christine didn't need that kind of simple, momentary comfort now. She needed a more permanent solution for her problems.

"Would you like to work at the opera, Christine?" I asked cautiously. "I could give you lessons again. It would take a few months for you to become as good as you were, but – "

"No," she replied quickly, shaking her head with a sad smile. "Those days are over. I'm a mother now. I can't have rehearsals all day long and performances every night. I'd miss too much of my children's lives. I... I can't do that. I'm sure you understand."

I nodded. Yes, I understood her. My little Philippe had taught me how precious every moment in the life of a child was. In a way, I was glad that Christine took her role as mother so seriously. I wouldn't have expected any less from her. Yet at the same time, there were tears in my eyes. I hadn't realised it before, but until that moment, I had always expected that one day, Christine would return to the stage. One day, she'd be my angel again.

Well, at least her decision made my own decision easier. And there was no time like the present to tell her.

I looked her straight in the eye, not bothering to hide the tears.

"Christine," I said slowly. "I'd be delighted to find you another job at the opera if you wish. But I won't be there myself. I'll leave Paris soon. And this time, I will not come back."


	84. Chapter EightyFour

**Chapter Eighty-Four**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I could only think of one thing to say.

"Why?" I breathed. "Why?"

Erik ran a hand through his hair. For the first time, I noticed that it was almost white now. Vaguely, I wondered why he wasn't wearing a wig with his new mask. I shook my head, trying to remain focused. There were far more important things than Erik's hair.

"It's not easy to explain," Erik said.

He looked so uncomfortable that I believed him at once. Still, he couldn't expect me to simply change the subject and talk about the weather, not after such a revelation. I needed an explanation.

"I know it can't be easy," I agreed consolingly. "But you've got to tell me, Erik. You've got to. Why do you want to leave Paris for good?"

"It's a long story," he warned me.

"We've got all night," I assured him. "Or even longer, if you need it. I'm not going anywhere till I know what has happened."

Erik hesitated for another minute or two. Once or twice, his gaze actually darted to the door, as if he were contemplating an escape. At last, he looked at me again and nodded slowly.

"You're right," he said heavily. "I owe you an explanation."

I nodded encouragingly. I didn't know what was to come, but any explanation had to be better than the terrible feeling of anxiety in my stomach.

"I can't stay in Paris any longer," he began.

"Why not?" I asked at once. "You've only just come back."

"Christine, please," Erik muttered, throwing me an anguished glance. "This is hard enough for me as it is. Would you mind not interrupting me?"

"Oh," I made, blushing. "I'm sorry. Go on."

He gave me a vague smile.

"Thank you," he said. "And you're right, of course: I've only just come back, and I hadn't planned to leave again either. You may remember that I had decided to leave in the first place because I had felt that there was more of the world to be discovered while I was still young enough to do it. During my travels, I did feel old every now and then, but not in a bad way. I had gathered the wisdom to understand many things, maybe better than I'd have understood them ten years ago."

I smiled a little, for what I had heard so far sounded rather positive. I was shocked when he let out a deep sigh.

"When I came home, I felt older than I had ever felt before," he went on. "Perhaps I had simply forgotten just how annoying the ballet rats are, or how noisy the rehearsals with the orchestra."

"That's no reason for wanting to leave," I pointed out. "You could attend fewer rehearsals, or you could send Philippe. He's been to a lot of rehearsals while you've been away. He knows what to pay attention to, and he could report back to you."

"That is not the problem," Erik said wearily. "At least not the main problem. I know that Philippe can handle those things, and I trust that he will handle them once I'm gone."

"What is the main problem then?" I asked impatiently. I felt that I was further from understanding him than when we had first started the conversation.

Erik looked me straight in the eye.

"You," he said simply. "The problem is you."

He might as well have punched me. Tears welled up in my eyes. I was the problem? But of course I was. I had treated him badly, and now he wanted to leave me for good.

Quickly, I got to my feet. I didn't want to sit there and listen to him explain how I had ruined his life as well as my own. I wanted to keep at least a little dignity. Before I had even reached the door, however, I felt Erik's hand on my shoulder.

"Don't go, Christine," he said softly. "Please... just give me the chance to explain. I didn't mean to put it that bluntly. It just..."

"It's the truth, though, isn't it?" I asked, turning around to face him. "You're leaving Paris because of me."

Erik nodded shortly.

"But it's not the way you might assume," he told me. "Let me explain it to you."

Reluctantly, I let him lead me back to the sofa. I still didn't want to hear what he had to say, but I felt that I owed it to him. Besides, if I had run into the corridor and Erik had followed me, we might have woken up the children, and I didn't want them to hear it, too.

"Explain, then," I muttered, sitting down again.

"It has to do with Marcella, too," he began. "Please don't be angry now... I... I spent last night with her."

I glared at him.

"_What_ did you do?" I spat. "How could you, Erik? She can't be older than sixteen... barely more than a child! She adores you, and you took advantage of her! Why –?"

"Stop," Erik interrupted me firmly. "I don't blame you for reacting like that, but it is not what you think. I spent the night with her, yes, but I did not lie with her."

"Oh... that's all right then, I suppose," I mumbled, feeling both confused and rather stupid because my thoughts had wandered into that particular direction for the second time that evening. But then, what else should I have thought?

"I did not lie with her," Erik repeated. "But I could have done. After I had found her, she was..." He threw me a brief glance. "Perhaps you're wondering how I found her."

I nodded, feeling even more stupid than before. The sad truth was that until Erik had mentioned it, I hadn't wasted a thought on how or why Marcella had reappeared. Even before Erik's stunning revelation, my mind had been occupied with Clarille's disappearance and Raoul's accident. There hadn't been room for anything else.

"It is a little embarrassing," Erik admitted, looking down at his hands. "You see, when I was gone for such a long time without telling her where I was, she decided to go looking for me. Somehow, she overheard that I live in the cellars, so she went there, and... well... she got caught in one of my traps. She fell into a pit I had dug in a passageway."

"Goodness!" I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.

I didn't know much about Erik's traps, but I knew they were dangerous. It was only because I knew that Erik had told Philippe all about them that I let my son enter the cellars at all.

"I know it's terrible," Erik assured me. "But believe me, I had no idea that Marcella would ever go into the cellars, and – But that's not important now. It won't happen again. The important thing is that I found her and got her out. I'm not sure how much time she spent in that trap, but it was too long. She was all cold and stiff, so I brought her to my home. It was closest."

I nodded, eager to hear more. Yet even though his story was interesting, I still was confused. So far, I had heard nothing that would explain his sudden resolution to leave Paris. I also had no idea what I had to do with it. After all, I hadn't even been there.

"Well, when we reached my house, I ran her a hot bath, and I gave her something to eat and drink," Erik went on. "Then I left her alone for a while and did the dishes. When I came back, she was... drunk. Very drunk, to be precise. I didn't give her alcohol, mind. There was a bottle of brandy on the mantelpiece, but I'd have never thought she'd drink from it. And in that state, she..." He cleared his throat, looking very uneasy. "She offered me her company for the night."

Even though I had known that the story would go into that direction, I gasped in shock. Marcella had struck me as such a shy girl. It was hard to believe that she had done such a thing. But then, I had seen people do far worse things when under the influence of alcohol.

"Why did she drink at all?" I wanted to know.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "It was difficult to get anything useful out of her. From what I did gather, she seemed to think that if she didn't have a physical relationship with me, I'd leave her before long. I don't know what gave her the idea, though. I'd certainly have never said anything of the sort."

"Of course not," I hastened to assure him. I knew that Erik was not that kind of man. "So, what did you do with her?"

He gave me a wry smile.

"I told her that I'd spend the night with her," he said. "She left me no other choice. You see, she threatened to go away and find someone else if I didn't comply. I doubt she would have done so, but I didn't want to argue with her while she was in that state. From the way she moved and talked, I could tell that she wasn't used to drinking alcohol. I knew it was only a matter of time till she'd fall asleep. So I made her sit down, and we waited."

"And she accepted it, just like that?" I asked.

Erik chuckled.

"Not really," he remarked. "She was very persistent. "When she tried to... erm, get undressed, I decided to speed things up a little. I've recently composed a lullaby, and I tried it out on her. She was asleep in a matter of minutes."

"That was a clever thing to do," I commented. "And what did you do afterwards?"

"I put a blanket over her and let her sleep on the sofa," Erik told me. "When she woke up in the morning, I carried on as usual. I'm not sure how much she remembers of what has happened... or rather, what has not happened. She didn't bring up the subject, and I found it better not to ask."

He looked at me expectantly, and I realised that his story was over.

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand why you've told me all this," I muttered. "What has it got to do with your wish to leave Paris? You did the right thing last night. There is no reason for you be embarrassed or – "

"It is nothing like that," he interrupted me. "It is just that when Marcella offered to spend the night with me, I realised something: She is young, she is pretty, she is a reasonably talented singer... but I cannot fall in love with her. She's not... you. You're the only woman I'll ever love, and I... I know that I won't ever be with you."

He took my hand and held it gently in his.

"Christine..." he said softly. "The Vicomte and I once tried to force you into making a choice between us, and it did not work out. I will not make that mistake again. I'm sorry, but I'm getting too old for hoping and waiting that one day, you'll want to be with me again. It's the same with Clarille. I'd be delighted if she was my daughter, but I know there's no way of finding out whether she's mine. That is why I have to leave. I just... I need a little peace of mind, and I can't get it when I'm around you. Do you understand?"


	85. Chapter EightyFive

**Author's note:** Following your requests to update more quickly this time, I did just that. I hope you like the next chapter. Keep the reviews coming!

**Chapter Eighty-Five**

**December 12****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

I shook my head. No, I didn't understand anything. And I didn't want to understand it either. It all felt so peculiar, like in a dream. Yet at the same time, a part of me knew that I was not dreaming. I could feel Erik's hand on mine, and I could see the look of worry and concern in his eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Christine," he said softly. "I didn't want to tell you like this. I... well, I didn't have time to think about how I'd tell you, but this was all wrong. I want to make it up to you. Do you... do you have any questions I might answer? Or do you want me to go? Would you rather have me leave now?"

"I... I don't know..." I admitted in a small voice.

I didn't have any questions, but I didn't want him to go either. I felt so scared and lonely, and yet I couldn't stay in the same room as Erik. Without quite knowing what I was doing, I pulled my hand out of his and got to my feet.

At once, Erik stood up as well.

"Where are you going?" he wanted to know.

"I need a few minutes to myself," I replied. "Then I'll come back, and we can talk. Just... just don't leave while I'm gone..."

"I'll stay," he promised, sitting back down. "I'll be there to answer any questions you might have. It's the least I can do."

"Thank you," I muttered and hurried out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

I walked down the corridor slowly until I reached my bedroom. I slipped inside and sank down on the bed, gazing out of the window t the dark sky.

Anyone who saw me would have assumed that I was perfectly composed. They couldn't have been more wrong. Inside my head, my thoughts were racing like overly excited chorus girls five minutes before the beginning of a performance. I tried my best to make them slow down, so I could examine them properly. Without Erik there to watch me, I succeeded at last.

The first feeling that I dragged to the front of my mind was a big lump of sadness and loss. For decades, Erik had been part of my life. I couldn't imagine what I'd do without him. Even when he hadn't been in Paris, I had always known that he'd come back. It wasn't until that moment that I realised how much I had relied on it.

And it wasn't just me either. I knew for a fact that Philippe would miss him just as much as I would, and Antoinette had grown very fond of him, too. And as for Clarille... I let out a sigh. Erik was right. We'd never know if he was her father. But still, I had hoped that he'd develop paternal feelings for her.

The feelings that I found next were those of guilt and shame. Once more, I was only thinking of myself and the children, when it should have been Erik I was worried about. I had had no idea that the situation was so difficult for him. Or maybe I had simply been too scared to think about it.

There had to be another solution. I just had to find it. Not for my sake, but for Erik's. He loved the opera. He couldn't seriously want to leave it all behind, just because he had problems with me. The opera was his home, the only home he had ever known. What would he do all day long if there were no managers to control and no chorus girls to scare? And what would he live on? Would he try to find another opera to haunt? But surely he wouldn't find another opera to be equipped perfectly for his needs, like the one he himself had helped build.

I shook my head wearily. All this pondering was pointless without Erik to answer my questions. It was good that I hadn't sent him away. I got up from my bed and made my way back to the sitting room, pausing briefly at the doors of my children's rooms to make sure they were still asleep.

When I came back, Erik was still sitting where I had left him, gazing at the carpet. Hearing me, he looked up expectantly.

"Is there anything I can do for you now?" he asked, patting the sofa next to him invitingly.

I nodded, but didn't sit down. I was determined to focus on Erik instead of myself, and I knew that if I settled down next to him, my feelings of loss and fear would overwhelm me. The last thing I needed was me breaking down and sobbing at his shoulder.

"Where are you planning to go?" I asked, trying my best to sound matter-of-fact, as if we were merely discussing his plans for the holidays.

"I haven't made any arrangements yet," he replied. If he was disappointed because I hadn't sat down on the sofa, he didn't show it. "But I think I will stay in France or at least in a county nearby. I still want to keep in touch with Philippe, after all. I thought you could send him to me for a couple of days every few months. I'll find him a teacher for the rest of the time. It won't be me, but he'll teach him the most important things."

"You're right," I told him. "It won't be you. No one could replace you for Philippe, Erik – not as a teacher and not as a friend. He'll miss you so much."

"Don't you think I'll miss him?" he asked seriously. "I haven't come into his life, only to disappear again this quickly. I wanted to watch him grow up. I wanted to see what a man he becomes."

"Then do it, Erik!" I said urgently. "Stay here! If you left because of me and won't be happy, I'd never forgive myself."

"Weren't you listening at all to what I was saying?" Erik wanted to know, a pained expression on his face. "I can't stay here. It's impossible. It would... it would kill me, Christine. I'm sorry, but it's the truth."

"I can change," I offered readily. "I'll stay away from the opera. I'll send Jacqueline to drop off and fetch Philippe from his lessons. You won't have to see me, and you won't have to leave either. Isn't that a good solution?"

Erik shook his head.

"It wouldn't make a difference," he said. "I'd still know you're there. I'd go on hoping and..." His voice trailed off as he gazed at me sadly.

His words were followed by silence. Erik looked at me, and I looked at him. It seemed that both of us were waiting for the other one to do something. I for one didn't know how to react. It was difficult to remain enthusiastic about my idea when Erik was so opposed to it.

In a way, I could understand him. I also realised how lucky I was. I had never had that kind of problem with love. My feelings had always been returned. I had never felt the fear that someone might not love me. I could only begin to grasp just how difficult it had to be for him.

But still, there had to be a solution that did not involve Erik giving up his life. And then it came to me.

"I'll leave," I said simply.

"What?" Erik exclaimed, then lowered his voice as he realised how loud he had been. He got up and came to me quickly, grasping me by the shoulders.

"Christine..." he murmured, gazing into my eyes. "You mustn't say that. You mustn't even think that. It is out of the question. Do you understand – out of the question. You have your life here in Paris. So do your children. I'd never let you leave."

"But you've also got your life here," I argued. "The opera... the lessons with Philippe... Marcella... and everything."

"I'm not as important as you are," he said dismissively. "Philippe will take over my duties at the opera, and I'll find a new teacher for Marcella. I'll stay until the first night of the new opera, and then..."

"Have you thought of Philippe at all?" I asked, glad that he had given me something new to argue with. "He is eight years old, Erik. He can't take over all the duties of the Opera Ghost. Even with all the things you've taught him, it would be too much for him."

"We'll find a solution for that problem, too," Erik assured me. "You got along fine when I was gone, and you'll get along just as well. There are certain things I can prepare before I leave to make it appear as if I still were there. And maybe I'll come to the opera every few months, at least till Philippe will be old enough to take over completely. You don't have to worry, Christine. I won't leave him."

´But you're leaving me´, I wanted to say. I wanted to shout at him, to yell and rage and demand that he stayed with us. But I didn't. Erik had to leave, and it was all my fault. I had understood that much.

Suddenly, I felt very tired, weary beyond belief.

"Could you go now?" I asked in a small voice. "There's a lot I have to think about."

"Of course," Erik said, letting go of me. "If you agree with it, I won't talk to the children about it all until I know exactly where I'll be going."

"Yes, yes," I muttered, barely aware of what I was agreeing to.

I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again, Erik had disappeared. It was only then that I allowed myself to cry.


	86. Chapter EightySix

**Chapter Eighty-Six**

**December 12****th**** - December 13****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

I didn't return to the opera for a long time after I had left Christine's new home. Instead, I wandered aimlessly through the nightly streets. I was not afraid. I was far more dangerous than anyone who might be lurking in the shadows, ready to jump out and demand money from passers-by. All it would take was a brief glimpse of my unmasked face, and they'd run away as fast as they could.

All I could think of was how disastrously wrong my conversation with Christine had been. I shouldn't have told her about my decision like that, blurting it out like an excited child who couldn't be expected to keep a secret. I had truly believed that in all those years, I had learned a little more about self-control.

My pitiful attempts to console Christine had been even worse than my initial delivery of the news. But then, I didn't know what else I could have said or done in order to improve the situation. It wasn't easy to convince a person that something wasn't their fault when it was obvious that it _was _their fault. I didn't have the impression that Christine had believed me for as long as a moment. I hadn't even believed it myself.

I knew that I had hurt her very much. I felt the ache deep within my heart. The old impulse to protect her had been so strong that I had been seriously tempted to take it all back, just to see her smile again. But it would have been both cruel and pointless. I had to get used to the fact that Christine was no longer a child who had to be protected. She was a woman who could handle the truth, if only I let her.

I dreaded the conversation with the children, but I knew that I couldn't postpone it forever. I had to tell them the truth, and I had to find a way to make them understand my reasons without turning their mother into a scapegoat.

I walked around a corner, heaving a deep sigh as I imagined the conversation. If only the children hadn't been so young... Sure, they knew some things about love, also about the love between man and woman, but not in a situation as difficult as ours. How was I supposed to explain it to children? After all, it would have been hard to understand for most adults.

It would be worst for Philippe, that much was certain. Clarille was too little to remember anything about me... not that there was a lot of me in her life for her to remember yet. The thought that the only child who might actually be mine would grow up not knowing me added to the ache in my heart, but I tried my best to ignore it for the moment. It couldn't be helped.

And as for Antoinette... I had grown very fond of the girl with her pretty face and the honest smile. I couldn't help thinking that without the tragic loss of her mother so early in her life, Christine might have been just as vivacious as her daughter. I didn't doubt that Antoinette would get by without me. She'd miss my stories about the opera, but that at least was a problem I could easily solve. It wouldn't be difficult to write down a few stories every now and then and send them to her.

Philippe, on the other hand, would be devastated, and there was nothing I could do about it. There was no simple solution to that problem. I'd write letters to him, of course, but all the letters in the world would not be able to replace me. Christine had been right about that.

_Pull yourself together_, I advised myself sharply. _You've been in many unpleasant situations, and you've always got out of them one way or another. _Yet even as I tried to convince myself, I knew that I was wrong. There had never been a situation as terrible as this one. In all those years, I had never been forced to break a child's heart.

_Christine_

There were many times when I was glad about my decision not to have Clarile sleep in my bedroom. Sleep often eluded me these days, and I didn't want her to wake up, too, just because her mother was unable to sleep.

Today was one of the worst nights in months, maybe even years. I had gone to bed right after Erik had left, but I hadn't slept a minute yet. I tossed and turned, and when the covers slipped from my restless fingers and landed on the floor, I gave a groan of frustration. I knew that I wouldn't sleep anytime soon.

Still, I didn't get up. I merely lay there on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling, as if the solution to all my problems would suddenly appear there. I smiled grimly. I doubted that the ceiling was big enough to accommodate all my problems, let alone their solution. So much had happened in the previous days, and there had been so little time to take it all in. Maybe that was why I didn't feel sleepy.

Idly, I wondered whether it had all started with Erik's return. No, that would have been too easy a solution. The whole plan involving Clarille had been carried out long before that time. In a way, Erik coming back had even been good for it. At least it had finally made me tell the truth.

No, while the situation with Erik was a problem, it was by far not the only one I had. There was Clarille's disappearance, Raoul's accident, the question what I wanted to do with the rest of my life... and, naturally, the decision which man I wanted to be with, which had become even more pressing, now that Erik planned to leave.

Telling Erik that I wanted to be with him would have been the easiest solution to that particular problem, but I knew enough about him and myself to understand that in the long run, it would create even more problems. I could only tell him that I wanted to be with him if I was absolutely certain about it, and at the moment, I was not. I was aware that I couldn't possibly ask him for more time to decide.

Since he had made the decision to go, there was nothing I could do about it. Or was there? Slowly, an idea began to form in my mind. Perhaps there was something I could do after all. It would require a little courage, but if it worked, it might just make Erik stay. It was worth a try.

_Raoul_

With the streetlamp outside long extinguished, what little I could see through the hospital window was pitch-black. It was not pain that had woken me up a few minutes previously. The doctor had given me something against it hours ago, so all I felt was a faint throbbing, combined with the rather unpleasant sensation of not being able to move my leg properly.

The reason why I was wide-awake in the middle of the night was fairly simple: I had slept most of the day away, and now there wasn't enough tiredness left. I didn't mind. All the sleep had left me well-rested, and I could finally think about my conversation with the Phantom, something I hadn't been able to do all day, not with nurses coming in to check on me.

I would have rather swallowed my tongue than told the Phantom, but I was glad that he had agreed to help me find whoever had abducted Clarille. If he has refused, I wouldn't have known who else to ask. It was the kind of thing he was good at – another fact that I would have never admitted to him. I couldn't imagine that the kind of people I knew would abduct a child. The Phantom, on the other hand... A shiver ran down my spine. I didn't even want to think about the kind of people that man knew. Given what he himself was like, they could not be pleasant.

We had agreed that he'd find out as much as possible and report back to me once I was home. I didn't enjoy the idea of having the Phantom in my house any more than I'd have enjoyed the idea of putting an angry wolf into a litter of kittens. My mind told me that he wouldn't try to hurt me, not now that we were working together, but I couldn't help feeling apprehensive all the same.

I tried my best to fight back such unpleasant thoughts and focused on the best part of our conversation: the fact that the Phantom was planning to leave Paris for good. He hadn't told me the reason, and I hadn't asked. The only thing that mattered to me was that he was leaving at all.

It would be such a relief to know that he was no longer around. I was confident that without him interfering all the time, I'd manage to improve the relationship to my children. I was, after all, their father, even though Clarille didn't know me very well yet. But that was something I was planning to change. Perhaps I'd even work out what my feelings for Christine were. One thing was certain: Without the Phantom, my life could only improve.


	87. Chapter EightySeven

**Chapter Eighty-Seven**

**December 13****th**** 1895: **_Jacqueline_

The morning after M. Erik had come to dinner began like every other morning. Antoinette woke up first, just like she always did. I didn't know how the girl did it. She had stayed up so late the previous night, and yet she wasn't in the least tired. On the contrary: She started her day by standing at the foot of my bed at seven in the morning, loudly telling me a story which M. Erik seemed to have told her.

Before I could do anything to stop her, the noise had woken up her little sister. I groaned. Now I had to get up, too. Mme. de Chagny was adamant that if Antoinette got up early, she was old enough to entertain herself. The same, however, could not be said about Clarille. She was much too young to be left on her own. If she hadn't needed me day and night, I wouldn't have slept in the nursery.

Not that I was angry. Clarille was the sweetest little child one could imagine. She hardly ever cried, and when she did, she could easily be soothed with a few gentle words or a lullaby. I had been told that she was just like her sister at that age, but I was sure that it was in appearance only. It took much more than a few words to calm down Antoinette, and I couldn't imagine that it had ever been different.

Before Clarille could start crying in earnest, I had got to my feet and put on a dressing gown. I went to her bed and picked her up in my arms, rocking her gently.

"Don't cry, my love," I whispered. "It's all right... all right.."

Almost at once, Clarille calmed down and smiled at me.

"I'm sorry," Antoinette said hastily. "I didn't mean to wake her up... really..."

I nodded reassuringly. I knew that the girl didn't do those things on purpose. She meant no harm. She simply didn't stop to consider the consequences of her actions.

"Can I take her?" she asked eagerly, once Clarille had stopped crying.

"Of course," I replied. "You can look after her while I run her a bath. You can also play with her a little."

Cautiously, Antoinette took her sister into her arms. Clarille looked up at her and smiled. Antoinette returned the smile brightly.

Quietly, as not to wake up everyone else in the house, I slipped out of the nursery and into the kitchen. While I heated the water for Clarille's bath, I mused on the sisters' relationship. Madame was lucky that Antoinette had taken to Clarille the way she had. After all, she had never shown a particular interest in her back at the Tavoires' home. Antoinette rarely showed any interest in things that were not related to ballet.

However, she seemed to adore her new sister. I had the distinct impression that at least part of the attraction was due to the fact that Clarille was a girl and might therefore one day share her passion for dancing. I was sure that Antoinette was fond of her brother, too, but his only interest in dancing were the pranks he could pull on the ballet girls. Once he was a few years older, he'd be just as full of mischief as M. Erik. The thought made me chuckle. Who'd have thought that quiet, shy Philippe would turn out to have a mischievous streak?

When the water was heated up properly, I carried it into the bathroom and prepared the bath for Clarille. I then called softly for Antoinette. The girl had a good hearing and came down the corridor at once, holding her sister by the hand. Clarille scampered along happily. When someone held her hand, she could walk remarkably quickly.

Once Clarille was undressed and sitting in the bathtub, Antoinette announced that she'd go and see if Philippe was already awake. Quickly, I told her to stay and help me with Clarille instead. I knew Antoinette's impatience only too well. Philippe would be awake within two minutes of her entering the room. Antoinette never meant to disturb him, but if she wanted him to get up, she'd make him get up, and that was the last thing I wanted. The boy had gone to bed very late the previous night. He needed his sleep.

While I was busy with her sister, Antoinette told me the bedtime story M. Erik had told her the night before. It didn't matter that she had told it to me before, not even an hour ago. As long as it kept her happy, I was willing to listen to it again. Besides, I had been too sleepy to listen to it properly anyway.

After a few minutes, we were joined by Philippe, who, despite our efforts to be quiet, had heard us talk. I was worried that the children would argue about who was to tell a story, but Philippe seemed content to leave the talking to his sister, while he helped me with Clarille. It was a peaceful start of the day, one that made me very proud that I was looking after such good children. Not every maid was so lucky.

When we emerged from the bathroom, Madame had already got up. We found her standing at the foot of the stairs, talking animatedly to Mme. Marandette.

"I can't believe I've lost them again!" the old lady exclaimed. "I can't believe it!"

I knew at once what she had to be talking about. Mme. Marandette was a very lovable woman, but lately, she was growing rather forgetful. I often came home to find the door locked only once instead of twice, items in Mme. Marandette's rooms frequently changed places, and only a few weeks before, she had lost her keys altogether. Now it seemed that she had lost her second set as well.

"Have you searched everywhere for your keys?" Madame asked, confirming my suspicion. "In all your pockets... in your handbag?"

"We'll find the keys for you," Antoinette offered, always helpful.

Unceremoniously, she seized her brother's hand and pulled him down the stairs with her. Madame watched them with an amused smile on her face.

"Oh, my dear children," Mme. Marandette greeted them. "Of course you can help me search if you want to. However, I'm almost positive that I still had the keys when I met my friends last night. I put them into my handbag."

"Well, perhaps you gave them to one of your friends later... for safekeeping," Madame suggested.

Mme. Marandette nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes..." she muttered. "Yes, that is possible. Well, I'll see my friends later today anyway. We're meeting for lunch before they travel back home. If I haven't found the keys by then, I'll ask my friends."

"Can we still help you look for them?" Antoinette asked. I could tell that she saw her adventure slip away.

"But yes, but yes," Mme. Marandette assured her kindly. "I'm sure that if the keys are there, your young eyes will find them much more quickly than my old ones. Come with me."

That was all the incentive Antoinette needed. Philippe and she vanished in the old woman's living room. Mme. Marandette followed them more slowly.

Madame and I exchanged a glance and smiled.

"That should keep them busy while I prepare breakfast," she remarked.

"Don't you want me to do it?" I asked, frowning. Preparing at least some of our meals was part of my daily routine ever since Larisse had started working for the Tavoires.

"No, no, I'll do it myself today," Madame told me. "I'll also look after Clarille and help the children get dressed later. I've got something else for you to do. I'd like you to go to the market and run a few other errands for me. Here, I've written it all down."

She handed me a list, together with a small pouch containing money.

"You don't have to hurry back," she added. "You can take your time. There are a few things I have to do this morning anyway, and I'd prefer to do them alone."

I nodded and went back to my room to get dressed. I did wonder what Madame was planning to do, but I was not in a position to ask. I was lucky that Madame told me as much as she did. It would have been downright insolent to demand more.

When I was dressed, I made a brief detour to the kitchen, where I took a quick meal of bread and tea. Then I left the house, calling a goodbye to Antoinette and Philippe, who were now rummaging through the pockets of every coat on the coat rack.

It was a clear, cold day. The snow sparkled on the ground. I shivered and wrapped the scarf around my neck more tightly. As I walked down the street, slipping and sliding on the frozen ground, I thought about how lucky Gabriel had been two nights before. If he hadn't stayed at the opera, he could have easily had an accident like M. le Comte.

Gabriel... A smile tugged at the corners of my cold mouth as I thought of him. Never before had I met a man like him. For the first time, I could imagine getting married and having a family of my own. I knew about other maids who had been forbidden to get married, but I didn't think it would be a problem for Madame. She was such a kind woman. She always wanted everyone around her to be happy... even when she wasn't happy herself.

Thoughts of Gabriel and of Madame kept my mind occupied as I strolled over the marketplace. Today, only few people stopped to talk to each other. It was simply too cold. My fingers and my face soon were so stiff that I tried to buy everything on my list as quickly as possible, just to get back inside, but there were so many items that it took a while.

Once I had found everything I needed, I went to the seamstress' little shop, which was only a few minutes' walk away. The new dress for Antoinette, which I was supposed to fetch, wasn't quite finished yet, so I offered to stay and wait. It was much better than walking around outside in the cold.

The seamstress offered me a cup of tea, and we had a little chat while she worked on the dress. With so many people coming to her shop every day, she always knew the latest gossip, and she was more than willing to share it with everyone who wanted to hear it.

Naturally, she had heard about Madame, M. le Comte and M. Erik. She tried to talk me into telling her more, but I stubbornly refused. I did enjoy a little gossip, but I would have never spoken ill of Madame. When the seamstress realised that her attempts were futile, she grew rather colder towards me. Fortunately, the dress was finished shortly afterwards, and I could leave the shop and the disgruntled seamstress.

By the time I reached home, I was frozen stiff, and my stomach was growling. It was past lunchtime. Mme. Marandette's coach was no longer standing in the street. I remembered that she was meeting her friends for lunch. Vaguely, I wondered if the children had managed to find her keys.

I went into the kitchen first to put away the food I had bought on the market. To my surprise, there was no meal prepared on the oven, nor was there any sign that someone had eaten at all. I frowned. It wasn't unusual for the family to take meals without me when I wasn't home, but they always left me something.

A niggle of worry crept up my spine. I suddenly noticed that it was much too quiet in the house. I couldn't remember a single time that Antoinette hadn't greeted me moments after I had entered the house. It was even more unusual today, for the girl had to know that I had fetched her dress from the seamstress, and surely she'd like to have a look at it.

I went from room to room, but no one was there. Madame hadn't mentioned any plans to go out later. Perhaps Mme. Marandette had invited them to have lunch with her friends and her. Perhaps they had decided to go and visit M. le Comte in hospital. I knew that there were a dozen perfectly good explanations, but somehow, none of them felt right to me. The longer I spent wandering through the empty house, the more anxious I grew.

The living room was last in the corridor. It was just as empty as the other rooms, but I spotted something unusual: There were a few sheets of paper lying on the table, as if waiting for me. I picked up the top one and saw that it was indeed addressed to me.

_Dear Jacqueline._

_The children and I are going to leave Paris for a while. There's no time to explain the reasons, but be assured that we are well. Please give the other letters to Eric and Raoul. _

_Yours, Christine de Chagny_


	88. Chapter EightyEight

**Author's Note:** I am ever so sorry that I haven't updated for such a long time. I moved to a different country and started a new job, which I needed a lot of time for. But I promise I'll update more quickly in the future. For those who also read my slash phic, "Emptiness": I've started the new chapter, and I'll post it soon.

**Chapter Eighty-Eight**

**December 13****th**** 1895: **_Jacqueline_

For the longest time, I simply stood there, rooted to the spot, clutching the letter in my hand. My eyes scanned the words in Madame's familiar handwriting, but they didn't make any sense. How could Madame and the children have left, without telling anyone, without telling _me_?

Finally, I managed to pull myself out of my stupor. Maybe seeing it with my own eyes would help me accept what had happened. The letter still held in my hand, I went to Madame's bedroom first. Sure enough, her big black suitcase was missing from its usual place in the corner next to the wardrobe. I had a look inside the wardrobe and saw that part of her clothes was missing, too.

It was just the same in the children's rooms. Clothes and toys were missing from wardrobes and chest of drawers. In a way, it reminded me of the time when we had sent Antoinette and Philippe away with M. Le Comte, so Madame could give birth to Clarille. The big difference was that this time, Madame and Clarille were gone, too. And I had no idea where they had gone or when they'd be back.

That was when the enormity of what had happened hit me. A sob escaped my throat, and it was soon followed by others. I couldn't hold back, and I didn't want to. The house was empty. There was no one to hear me. The thought only made me cry harder.

I loved the children like my own, and I was very fond of Madame. What hurt me most was not that they had left without me, but that they had left without informing me. Madame had even let me in on the secret of having Clarille. She had to know that I'd be worried, that I would wonder why they had left so suddenly. Did my feelings mean so little to her?

I sank down on Antoinette's bed, which she would not sleep in that night, and wrapped my arms around myself. I would have preferred Gabriel's soothing embrace, but he was not there, and I had no means of contacting him.

The thought then came to me that I had to tell someone what had happened. I couldn't just sit here and cry. Perhaps someone would be able to make sense of the hasty departure and explain it to me.

My first choice would have been Mme. Tavoire. She was, after all, Madame's best friend. The problem was that, just like Gabriel, I couldn't contact her. I had no coach, and I didn't have the money to rent one. I could have gone to M. le Comte, but I didn't know if he was still in hospital or already at home, and, given how cold it was outside, I didn't feel like trying both.

This left me with M. Erik. I knew that he was at the opera most of the time, and it wasn't too far away to walk there, even though it would be no pleasure in the cold. But then, I had a feeling that nothing would be a pleasure that day, and it had little to do with the cold.

As soon as I had made up my mind what to do, I felt slightly better. I went into the bathroom and scrubbed my face vigorously with cold water, till it was almost as red as my eyes. Anyone seeing me now would think that it was merely caused by the weather. At least I hoped so.

When my face was dry again, I made my way back down the corridor to fetch the letters to M. Erik and M. le Comte. I wasn't sure if I'd meet M. le Comte that day, but I didn't want to run the risk of either letter getting lost. After all, they seemed to be very important.

Without further ado, I put on my coat again and left the house. I was glad to be out in the street, among other people. The house had felt very big and empty. I couldn't remember the last time I had been there all alone. At least Clarille usually kept me company, even when her siblings were at their teachers' houses and Madame was out, too. I didn't like being alone.

The way to the opera was long. I walked as quickly as I could without slipping on the frozen ground. At least it wasn't snowing, which I supposed was something to be grateful for. Still, my face soon felt cold and stiff from the icy wind. Even if I had wanted to go on crying, I wouldn't have been able to.

In order to keep my mind off the unpleasant subject of the cold weather, I began to ponder why Madame had decided to leave so suddenly. I was almost certain that it had something to do with M. Erik's visit the night before. It would have been too much of a coincidence. I knew that M. Erik had stayed after the children and I had gone to bed, though I didn't know for how long.

Had M. Erik said or done something that had offended Madame? But if he had done so, why was it Madame who was leaving and not he? Madame wasn't one of those foolish women who rushed off at the first opportunity to show their hurt pride. She was much too sensible for such behaviour.

Or was it Madame who had said or done something stupid? But again, I couldn't imagine her leaving because of it. If something like that had happened, she might have left the room for a while or asked M. Erik to go, but she would have never left for a longer time and taken the children with her.

No, something else must have happened, something much bigger and more important. I thought about it for a little longer, but every theory I came up with sounded feeble, even to myself. I could only hope that no one would ask me for an explanation, for I could certainly not give one.

It was only when I entered the opera that I realised that I had no idea where to find M. Erik. I had come to see him a few times, years ago, back when he had still paid me to pass on information about Philippe, but he had always met me in the entrance hall. I only knew that he lived somewhere in the cellars, but I had no desire to search them. I had heard a lot about its maze-like character. Besides, how could I be sure that he was in his home in the cellars at the moment? He could be anywhere in the opera.

I didn't know how long I would have stood there in the entrance hall, taking a few hesitant steps into one direction, then the other, if it hadn't been for Mme. Giry. The ballet mistress emerged from a room to my right, spotted me and came over to me at once.

"Good day, Jacqueline," she greeted me. "Are you here to fetch Philippe? I was not aware that he had any lessons today. I haven't seen him around."

She paused, frowning as she took a close look at my face.

"Have you been crying?" she wanted to know in a low voice.

I nodded glumly, wondering whether the traces of tears on my face really were so obvious that everyone could see them. Then I remembered something my sister had once told me. According to her, Mme. Giry always knew what was going on inside the chorus girls, merely by looking at them. Apparently, the same was true for people who were no members of her chorus.

"Come with me," she said simply.

If I had been her, I'd have asked a thousand questions, but she held herself back. She seemed to have decided that whatever had happened to me was not something fit for the public. She led me to a room which I assumed was her office and made me sit down in a straight-backed armchair. I opened my coat and undid my scarf, glad to feel warm again.

"So," Mme. Giry said, leaning down to me and gazing at me intently. "Tell me what has happened. It must be something serious for Christine to send you here in the cold. Do you have a message for me? Or is it for Meg? I'm afraid she's not here at present, but I can give it to her."

I did some quick thinking and decided that Mme. Giry had the same right to be informed as Mme. Tavoire, M. le Comte and M. Erik. Wordlessly, I pulled the sheet of paper out of the inside pocket of my coat and handed it to her, motioning her to read. I couldn't bring myself to making any kind of comment on what she was about to see. It would have been too difficult to put into words.

It didn't take Mme. Giry long to read the few lines that made out the letter to me.

"Goodness..." she breathed. "And they're really gone?"

I nodded briefly.

Without another word, Mme. Giry left the room. I waited. I wasn't sure where she had gone or when she'd be back, but I didn't know what else to do. Maybe, if I waited long enough, she'd come back and explain the situation to me. At least I sincerely hoped she would.

After about a quarter of an hour, she reappeared, followed by M. Erik. He looked like a man who desperately tried to remain calm, even though his world had just been severely shaken.

"You have a letter for me?" he said without preamble.

I nodded and handed it to him. His fingers trembled as he opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper. For a few moments, he stared at it. Then he looked up again. It was the first time I had ever seen a grown-up man cry.


	89. Chapter EightyNine

**Chapter Eighty-Nine**

**December 13****th**** 1895: **_Erik_

I ran through the corridors of the opera. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care. All I knew was that I had to get away, far away from Mme. Giry, Jacqueline or anyone else who could see me. The mighty Opera Ghost, reduced to tears by a letter. I had a vague idea of the kind of gossip such news would create, and it would not at all be good for my reputation.

Not that my reputation mattered very much to me at that moment. I felt as if nothing mattered, nothing except the sheet of paper clutched in my hand. My whole existence, reduced to the contents of a letter. Even if it hadn't been for the gossip, I would have run away. I was deeply ashamed of myself. I couldn't remember the last time I had lost control of my emotions like that. It was despicable, pathetic.

After a while, I became vaguely aware of the stabbing pain in my lungs and realised that I had been moving too quickly for too long. I was not as young as I used to be. I slowed down, angry at my body for letting me down. While I had been running, it had been easy not to think. Now that I was merely walking, the thoughts came to my head uninvited. I knew that unless I wanted to make a fool of myself by bursting into fresh tears in the corridor, I had to go somewhere I'd be alone.

Looking around me, I saw that I was not far away from Box Five. I knew that it would be empty; no one but myself and occasionally Philippe entered it. I made my way to the box quickly and slipped inside, closing the door behind me. The curtains were drawn. I could see no one, and no one could see me. It was just the way I needed it.

I sank down in my favourite seat and glanced at the letter once more. Foolishly, I hoped that maybe, the contents would have changed since the first time I had read it. They had not.

_Dear Erik,_

_There is something I have to tell you. I should have told you sooner, but I did not know how. Clarille is not your daughter, but Raoul's. I never told you, but he and I were together a few more times after you left Paris. Raoul knows that Clarille is his, though he would never admit it to you. He is too afraid of what might happen. Please spare him, for it is not his fault. _

_Under those circumstances, I am sure you agree that we should not meet for a while. I cannot allow you to leave the city, not when there is still so much to be done at the opera, so I've taken the children and left instead. Maybe you'll be able to forgive me one day._

_Yours,_

_Christine de Chagny_

A curious sound escaped my throat, half sob, half growl. It was all too painful, and reading the letter a second time had made it even more so. I put the sheet of paper back into my pocket and stared moodily into the semi-darkness of Box Five.

Now that the most immediate pain had passed, I was able to understand more about my feelings. It was bad enough that Christine had left, but that was not the sole reason why I was devastated. If that had been all, I would have been sad, of course, but also determined. I would have done anything I could in order to find her and the children. There were ways of tracking down even someone who didn't want to be found, and I happened to have an extensive knowledge of them. I had little doubt that if I had wanted to find them, I could have done so. I had both enough time and enough money.

But why should I try to find them? Christine had made it perfectly clear that she didn't want to see me. Who was I to force my company on her? After all, she would have accepted my leaving. I had to do the same.

I gave a harsh laugh, a deeply unpleasant sound that reverberated through Box Five long after I had closed my mouth. My reasoning was ludicrous. I knew very well that under different circumstances, I would have had no compunctions whatsoever about tracking down Christine and the children. There was a reason why I didn't do it, and it had nothing to do with a new sense of respect for her feelings and wishes.

It was Clarille. Of course it was. The news that she was not my daughter added a considerable amount to my sadness. I hadn't realised before quite how much the idea that she might be mine had cheered me up. It had confused me, too, with all its implications, but first and foremost, there had been joy.

And now there only was a gaping hole where Christine's letter had torn the joy out of my heart. Gingerly, I touched my chest, gasping at the pain. It felt like a physical wound, with the big difference that it couldn't be healed by any doctor.

It all made sense now. Christine's insistence that I was not to leave Paris had been nothing but an act. At the time, she had already been planning to leave, so she knew it wouldn't be necessary for me to leave as well.

Now I also understood why the Vicomte had been so eager to find out who had taken Clarille. He had been worried about his daughter. And of course he hadn't told me that she was his – he knew that if he had told me, I would have been too angry to help him. Doubtlessly, he would tell me sooner or later, just to spite me.

I would never have children. How could such a simple sentence hurt so much? After all, it was not as if it was anything new to me. I had always known that men such as myself were better off childless. Who could guarantee that my deformity wouldn't be passed on to my children?

Clarille was not deformed. She had inherited all her mother's beauty. I had thought it was a miracle, a lucky coincidence at worst. Now I knew better. She was not deformed because neither of her parents was. Sometimes, the simplest explanation truly was the correct one. I, as a scientist, ought to have known it.

Cautiously, I prised my soul open further still, trying to find out why the thought of never being a father was so painful. It was true that I had bid farewell to the idea a long time ago. Philippe was living proof of it. If I had seriously assumed that one day, I would have a child of my own, I would have never begun to train another boy as my heir.

Philippe... Thinking of him hurt me, too. I had read a lot about children. I knew that a few months or even weeks could change an eight-year-old boy very much. I could only hope that Christine would allow him to continue practicing his skills as the future Opera Ghost, as well as find him an excellent music teacher. We had made a good start at playing the piano, but without practice, it would all be gone very quickly. Somehow, I couldn't find myself worrying too much about it, though. Christine had always been eager to give her children the best education possible. Doubtlessly, the Vicomte had provided the necessary money.

The Vicomte! Anger burned in my chest like a hot coal. Suddenly, I understood that the crushed hope of having a child of my own was not the only reason why I was so devastated. It felt as if by making him the father of her third child, Christine had chosen the Vicomte over me a second time.

All the time that she and I had spent together as husband and wife, sharing kisses, loving caresses and many more intimacies, became insignificant. It was clear that to her, it had been nothing more than choosing an exotic meal at a restaurant: It had been a nice change to try something different, but at home, she'd rather have what she already knew. It was sad to know that I meant so little to her, when she was my whole world.

A knock on the door made me jump.

"M. Erik?" a soft voice called. "It is Marcella. Mme. Giry told me to look for you. When I was on stage, I saw the curtains of Box Five move, so I knew you must be here."

I shook my head about my own stupidity. I hadn't even noticed that the curtains moved with all my sighing and groaning. A fine Opera Ghost I was. Very fine indeed.

"Come in," I gave back in a resigned voice.

The door was pushed open slowly, and Marcella entered the box. Even in the semi-darkness, I couldn't help but notice the anxious expression on her face.

"Has... something happened?" she asked uncertainly.

Given that Mme. Giry had sent her to look for me, I doubted that she knew nothing about what had happened. I decided to leave it at what she already knew. Perhaps I would tell her some more about it later, but at the moment, I didn't feel up to it.

"Yes," I replied, maybe a little too briskly. "But I don't want to talk about it."

"All right," Marcella mumbled, already halfway out of the door again. "I didn't mean to... interrupt you. "It's just... it's nearly four o' clock, and I wanted to ask about my voice lesson. But we can have it another time, of course."

I did some very quick thinking. Christine was gone, and with her the hope of ever having own children. But Marcella was here, and she needed me, not unlike Christine had needed me at first. I would help her become an excellent singer. Perhaps it would distract me a little from my loss.

"Wait," I called, getting up from my seat. "I'll come with you. We'll have that voice lesson right now."

As we left Box Five together, I could hear the faint rustling of the letter in my pocket. Somehow, it didn't hurt quite as much as it had done before.


	90. Chapter Ninety

**Author's Note:** Part of this chapter was written in the waiting area of an airport. I dedicate it to all the people who, like me, are or were stuck somewhere due to the present weather conditions. I hope you make it home safely.

**Chapter Ninety**

**December 13****th**** 1895: **_Raoul_

Coming home after a stay in hospital, no matter how short said stay had been, should have felt like a relief. The friendly coachman who had brought me back certainly seemed to think so, for he smiled brightly as he opened the door for me.

"Here we are, M. le Comte," he announced cheerily.

Cecile seemed to feel the same. As she offered me her arm and helped me hobble out of the coach, she was smiling, too, if a little uncertainly.

"It is good to be back, isn't it?" she remarked in a low voice, gesturing at the house with her free hand. It sounded a little as if she needed me in order to know what she was supposed to feel.

I was the only one who didn't even try to smile. Why should I have done so? On the way here, all I had been able to think of had been my dead coachman. I had hardly known him, and I had never liked him much. His habit of drinking too much had been a constant danger to my children and to me. If it hadn't been for my unwillingness to look for another coachman, I wouldn't have had him for as long as two weeks.

But still... I couldn't help feeling guilty. It was easy to say that the coachman had brought on his own doom by getting drunk, even though he had known that he'd have to bring Cecile and me home later, but I had never been a friend of easy solutions. It was a fact that I had driven the coach. It were my actions that had killed the coachman and put Cecile and me in danger. If only I had paid more attention to the weather... if only I had thought of staying with Meg and Jean before I had driven away... if only I were a more experienced driver... maybe things would have been different.

And now I was returning to my house. I had never really regarded it as my home, not without Christine and the children, and I knew that now, it would feel less so than ever. It would always be the place at which Jacques had died. It was small comfort that at least _his_ death had not been violent or painful, but it didn't change the fact that he had found his death in my sitting room. The mere thought sent a shiver down my spine. No, there was nothing remotely cheerful about returning to that house.

"M. le Comte?"

Cecile's hesitant voice, combined with a slight tug at my hand, made me realise that I had been standing motionless in front of the entrance door for what must have been several minutes.

"What? Oh... I am sorry," I muttered. "I was just..."

"Thinking of Uncle Jacques?" she asked. "So was I."

I gave her a weak smile and briefly squeezed the hand that was still holding mine. The knowledge that there was someone who understood at least part of what I was feeling did help a little.

Together, we entered the house. At once, I knew that there was something different about the place. When we had left the house the day before, it had already been dark. I was sure that I had drawn the curtains in all rooms, so it ought to have been dark. But it wasn't. Dim December light was spilling into the corridor through doors which I was certain I had closed.

I exchanged a glance with Cecile. She looked just as confused as I felt.

"Is anyone here?" I called uncertainly, feeling both foolish and apprehensive.

"Yes," came a voice from the sitting room. "I am here."

And from the room emerged none other than Mme. Giry, dressed in a long black coat and matching black hat.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, not very politely. "How did you get into the house?"

"The undertaker let me in," she replied. "He was about to leave when I arrived a few minutes ago. He was displeased about your absence, and he asked me to tell you that he awaits your message as to when he and you can meet."

Vaguely, I recalled that I had indeed given the undertaker a key when he had come to fetch Jacques' body, in case it took him longer. I also recalled that I had been supposed to meet him this morning in order to discuss the details of the funeral. The accident had made me forget all about it.

"Thank you," I mumbled as Mme. Giry handed me the key. "I am sorry, but I still don't understand why you're here. Surely you couldn't know about the undertaker."

Mme. Giry shook her head.

"Of course not," she replied. "There is something I need to talk to you about. Something private."

"I'll go and make a cup of tea," Cecile announced at once. Before I could say anything, she had disappeared into the kitchen and closed the door behind herself. I was glad about it. Whatever Mme. Giry had to say, it had to be important.

"What is it that you need to talk to me about?" I asked Mme. Giry.

"It is a serious matter," she answered gravely. The tone of her voice made me shudder. "We should better discuss it sitting down."

I nodded, feeling distinctly uneasy. What on earth had happened?

"Come with me," I said.

I led her not into the sitting room, but into a small room next to it, which I used as my study. The way there was long and a little painful. I almost wished Cecile hadn't vanished into the kitchen that quickly. She could have helped me. I had not yet had the chance to get used to my walking stick.

As soon as I was inside the study, I sank down in the chair behind my desk, leaving Mme. Giry to take a seat facing me. As she did so, I noticed that she looked paler than was normal, even in December.

Silence stretched between us. It occurred to me that Mme. Giry was probably waiting for me to encourage her to speak. It was a very unusual behaviour for her. The ballet mistress was well-known for speaking her mind whenever she thought it necessary. The fact that she was not doing it now unnerved me slightly.

"What is it, then?" I finally asked, unable to bear the silence any longer.

"It's Christine," she replied, saying what I had secretly feared all along. "She has taken the children and disappeared. We don't know where they have gone. She left Jacqueline a note, saying that she had to go, but not giving any reasons. Here, you can read it for yourself."

She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a piece of paper, which she handed to me. I read the ridiculously short note once, then again. It didn't reveal any information that Mme. Giry hadn't already given me. It explained nothing. Nothing at all. Why would Christine leave? And why would she take the children with her? What had happened that would make her do something like that? I could not understand it.

"There is more," Mme. Giry said after I had stared at the note for a few minutes. "Christine has also left letters for Erik and you."

A second piece of paper was thrust into my hand. I opened the envelope slowly, not wanting to reveal what was inside it. But then, could it be worse than what I had just read?

It could.

_Dear Raoul,_

_There is something I have to tell you. I should have told you sooner, but I did not know how. Clarille is not your daughter, but Erik's. I never told you, but he and I were together far more often than I had led you to believe. Erik knows that Clarille is his, though he would never admit it to you. He is too afraid of what might happen. Please spare him, for it is not his fault._

_Under those circumstances, I am sure you agree that we should not meet for a while. I know that you can't leave the city, not when there is still so much to be done, so I've taken the children and left instead. Maybe you'll be able to forgive me one day._

_Yours,_

_Christine de Chagny_


	91. Chapter NinetyOne

**Chapter Ninety-One**

**December 14****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

It was the pain that woke me up, a dull throbbing at the back of my head. Groaning, I extended a hand and felt the large lump gingerly. My mouth was very dry, and my throat was aching. Vaguely, I tried to remember what I had done the previous night that would leave me in such a state. Had I been drinking? But no, I rarely ever drank alcohol, and certainly never that much. After all, I had my children to think of.

My children! At that thought, my eyes snapped open. More pain shot through my head as garishly bright sunlight hit my eyes. Instinctively, I turned away from the source of the light, a small window. I frowned. My house didn't have such small windows. With a start, I realised that I was not at home, nor at any other place I had ever been before.

I was crouching in the corner of a small, rather dirty room. It was empty except for a mattress and a stool. My children were nowhere to be seen. But there was a door. I got up from the floor, ignoring the explosion of pain inside my head as I did so, and hurried over to it. It was locked, and it remained locked, no matter how much I tried to turn the handle.

"Hello?" I called as loudly as I could, my aching throat screaming in protest. "Hello, can someone hear me?"

"I can hear you all right," a male voice called back, a grumpy, irritated sort of voice. "Stop making such a racket, woman!"

"Let me out!" I demanded, pounding the door with my fists and kicking it with my feet. "Let me out and bring me to my children! I warn you, I'll scream all day if you don't let me out!"

I was aware that my threat was rather feeble. Already, my throat felt as if it were on fire. Every breath I took was more painful than the last. But I was prepared to scream until I had no voice left, if only I'd get to see my children. I didn't know where I was or what had happened, but at that moment, those things were not important to me. I only wanted to make sure that my children were all right. I would care about the rest later.

"All right, all right," the voice shouted, barely audible over the noise I was making. "If that's what'll make you shut up, I'll get you to your brats."

I stopped at once, listening breathlessly to the unmistakable sound of keys being inserted into the lock on my door.

"Stand back, woman!" the voice said.

I did as I was told. The door swung open to reveal an old, rather short, squat man with tangled grey hair and beard. He didn't look very threatening. I reckoned that I could overpower him if I tried. Then I could go looking for my children myself.

The thought seemed to have shown on my face, for the man glared at me.

"Now, don't try anything stupid with me," he warned me. "I know how to take care of women like you."

He plunged his hand into a pocket of the dirty grey coat he was wearing and pulled out a knife. It was not big, but it looked threatening enough. I inhaled sharply and backed against the wall, my eyes fixed on the shiny blade.

"Do you believe me now?" the man asked in a low, menacing voice.

I nodded mutely.

"Then come with me," he said, stepping aside to allow me to leave the room.

Now that I had seen the knife, I was not so sure whether I truly wanted to go anywhere with that man, but for the sake of my children, I pulled myself together. I left the room and walked down a dark corridor. The man was a step behind me, giving my back a shove whenever he wanted me to turn left or right. I couldn't see it, but I imagined him with the knife in his other hand, ready to hurt me if I tried to run for it.

I did not try anything. I was so rigid with fear that I found it hard to move at all. That one moment of recklessness in which I had imagined overpowering the man and running away had passed quickly. Now that I had the time to think about it, it seemed ridiculous. I had no idea where I was or where my children were. Who knew how many floors and corridors the building had? Moreover, for all I knew, there could have been half a dozen men with knives at the room in which my children were held prisoner, too.

No, it was certainly best to comply, at least for the moment. If only I could remember what had happened. Yet every time I tried, my head merely throbbed painfully.

"That door on the right," the man finally hissed.

I nodded and turned to face the door. The man walked past me and pulled out his keys again, fumbling with the lock while he brandished the knife at me with the other hand. I had the feeling that he gained a lot of pleasure from threatening me.

The moment the door was open, I rushed into the room. It was identical to the one I had been held prisoner in, except that there were two mattresses instead of one. My spirits rose as I saw my children lying on them, their bodies covered with thin blankets. Their eyes were closed, and their faces very pale.

"Antoinette? Philippe?" I called softly, shaking each of my children in turn as I crouched down on the floor next to them. "Clarille?"

They did not respond. They were breathing, but none of them made a move to wake up.

I glanced back at the man, who was now standing in the doorframe, blocking the exit.

"What have you done to them?" I cried, jumping up. "What have you done to them, you... you..."

"Easy now, woman," the man called, taking a step towards me. "Don't forget!"

He brandished his knife again. He was definitely enjoying himself.

"What have you done to them?" I repeated, sinking back down on the floor.

I didn't seriously expect an answer, and I was rather surprised when I got one.

"Nothing, really," the man replied, scratching his beard with the hand that wasn't holding the knife. "They got the same we gave you, but not as much. Just a little something to make you all quiet while we brought you here. Maybe it was a bit too strong for them children. We didn't really think about it, you know."

It was almost as if he expected understanding from me. Well, he would not get any. I was about to shout at him, to tell him what I thought of him, knife or no knife, when it happened: Clarille gave a tiny cough, then rolled onto her other side. She was all right. Gently, I stroked her hair. As I did so, I noticed that Antoinette and Philippe had started stirring as well.

Now that I was sure that my children would wake up before long, I decided to find out more about where we were and why we were here. I rather hoped that the man's mood would not suddenly swing to hostile again.

"Can you tell me what has happened?" I asked him, trying my best to sound friendly. "I can't remember anything, you see, but I'm sure you know all about it. You must be very important if they've entrusted you to look after us."

I wasn't sure how I knew that someone else was involved in whatever was going on. It was just a feeling. That man certainly looked like someone who stole handbags in dark side streets, but not like someone who cleverly abducted a woman and her three children from their own home. There had to be someone else.

The gentle flattery of my words did not go amiss. The man gave me a little smile and sat down on a stool next to the door. He still held the knife in his hand, but at least he no longer seemed to feel the need to thrust it under my nose every other minute.

"Well, I do know a few things," he assured me. "And I suppose it can't hurt to tell you. There's nothing you can do anyway. And if you really don't remember anything..."

"I don't," I said quickly. "The last thing I remember is..." I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall what it was I remembered. The throbbing in my head was a little more endurable now, and I could bear to do a bit of thinking. "...I was speaking to Jacqueline. I told her to fetch Antoinette's new dress from the seamstress. Yes, and then she left. And then..." I shook my head. I could not remember any more. There was only darkness. "I don't even know when it all happened," I admitted in a small voice. "Was it earlier today? Yesterday? Last week? I don't know."

The man threw me a glance that was almost pitying.

"It was yesterday," he told me. "In the morning. It's morning now, too. You slept for quite a while. Victor and I came in shortly after the maid had left. We gave you those pills that would make you sleep, and you took them because you were scared we'd hurt your children. We wouldn't have done that, of course, but you didn't know that, did you? You gave the pills to your children, too, and then you all fell asleep. And then we brought you here, and – "

"That should be enough, Julian," a voice interrupted him sharply.

My heart, which had started beating more quickly at the mentioning of the name Victor, thumped in my chest as I gazed at the door. I knew that voice. It was a voice that still appeared frequently in my nightmares, accompanied by a house on fire, with my children trapped inside, screaming for me to rescue them.

The man who was now standing in the doorframe looked older than I remembered him, but his eyes still had that same manic gleam. My nightmares had come true. Marielle's father had returned.


	92. Chapter NinetyTwo

**Chapter Ninety-Two**

**December 14****th**** 1895: **_Christine_

"Christine de Chagny," Marielle's father greeted me, giving me a mocking little half-bow. "How good it is to see you again."

If I had been in a better condition, I might have retorted that it was anything but good to see him again. As it was, however, the only thing I could think of was a breathless,

"I thought you were in prison..."

"So I was," he assured me.

He approached the only stool in the room, the one on which the man called Julian was sitting. Obediently, Julian sprang up and retreated into a corner of the room. It was as if the moment his master had entered the room, he had lost both the will and the ability to speak.

"So I was," Marielle's father repeated once he had settled down. With some distant part of my mind that was not numb with shock, I noticed that he was sitting very erect, almost like in a throne. "Prison... A terrible place. And it gets very dull after a while. I cannot recommend it. So I broke out. Victor helped me. Do you remember Victor? He was never caught by the police, you know."

He gestured at the door, and I saw for the first time that another man had entered the room after him. Oh, I remembered Victor very well, even though he wasn't as often in my nightmares as his master.

"Yes, our Victor," Marielle's father continued. "Not very bright, but so dedicated! So loyal!" Victor's face glowed with pride, but the mocking smile on the face of Marielle's father told me that he was anything but serious. "I managed to smuggle out messages, so he knew what to do. He even bribed one of the guards. That is why no one ever knew that I had escaped. It would have spoiled my lovely surprise. Do you like it?"

I shook my head mutely, partly to signal that I did not like it, partly because I was still unable to understand what was going on. I knew now how the man had escaped, but I knew nothing else. It was as if a great big piece of information was missing, and I had no means of retrieving it.

"You don't like it?" Marielle's father asked, feigning a look of shock. "You hurt my feelings, Mme. de Chagny. After all the measures I took in order to show you my hospitality... Don't you like your beautiful holiday home? I can tell you, it was not easy to find an abandoned hotel in a place so remote that no one would hear us move in or..." He made a delicate little pause. "...hear you scream, should you decide to do so. Or was it the method of getting here that did not appeal to you? But why, Mme. de Chagny, when I sent my two of my best men to fetch you and your delightful children? Of course, I suspect you don't usually travel while sleeping, but that could not be helped. After all, I didn't want you to see where you were going. That, too, would have spoiled the surprise."

He paused for a moment, and I seized the chance to look down at my children. Somehow, he had kept me mesmerised while he had been talking, but now, I could glance down. To my relief, I saw that all three of them were stirring more frequently than they had done before. Whichever pills the men had given him – or rather, whichever pills the men had made me given them, if Julian had told the truth – the effect seemed to be wearing off. In all this misery and confusion, it was at least one thing to be grateful for.

Marielle's father cleared his throat. At once, I focused my attention on him again. Instinctively, I knew better than to let him out of my sight for longer than a few moments. That man was capable of anything.

"Oh yes, the children," he said softly. "It all comes down to the children, doesn't it? If it hadn't been for Philippe, you'd have never met Marielle. And if you hadn't dismissed Marielle, even though she had done nothing wrong, I would have never seen the need to take revenge on you. And now it all comes down to the children again. Don't you see?"

Again, I shook my head. I did remember what had happened years before, and up to a certain point, I could understand the logic behind it for a man like the one sitting in front of me. I could not, however, understand what had got me into my present situation. It was clear that Marielle's father was furious because Erik, Raoul and I had been the reason for him to go to prison, but what had my children to do with it? They had done nothing wrong! Clarille hadn't even been born at the time!

I opened my mouth, trying to tell him all that, but only a few dry coughs and rasping sounds came out.

"Victor!" Marielle's father called at once. "A glass of water for our guest!"

Mere moments later, the glass was thrust into my hand. It was anything but clean, and under different circumstances, I would have not drunk from it, but it was all I had. Glad that at least the water itself looked clean enough, I drank, taking delicate little sips. My throat felt raw, but with every sip, it grew a little better. After a few moments, I put the glass down. It was half-full, but I wanted to keep the rest for the children when they woke up. Marielle's father might have been resolved to play the perfect host for the moment, but who knew how long it would last?

"I don't understand," I said eventually. "Why do you want to harm my children? They're innocent. They had nothing to do with you ending up in prison."

Marielle's father shook his head, as if in wonder.

"Is that really your opinion?" he asked. "I've given you so much time to think about it. You received a fair warning, but you chose to ignore it. You could have left the city, and I would have left you in peace. But you decided to stay. You decided that you were more important than the well-being of your youngest child."

I gasped.

"It was you!" I exclaimed. "You abducted Clarille and put her into the cellar!"

"I did indeed," he replied pleasantly. "Or rather, Victor and Julian did. I was not present myself. They could have taken little Clarille and never brought her back. Did you ever think of that? But then, maybe you would have liked it. After all the trouble you had with her father... or should I say, her two potential fathers?"

"What do you know about that?" I hissed. I had no intention to discuss that particular problem with him of all people.

"More than you think," he answered simply. "You see, Julian here is very good at blending into the background... listening to conversations... And once we had the old woman's keys, it was even easier. We could even listen to conversations in your own home, and you were never any the wiser."

My eyes grew wide in shock. Suddenly, it all fit together in a way it had never fit together before: Clarille's abduction, Mme. Marandette's missing keys...

"But why?" I asked, my voice a mere whisper.

"Why? Why?" he repeated, and I was even more shocked to hear the veneer of politeness melt away to reveal a harsh, cruel voice. "To punish you, Christine de Chagny! You are the one who started it all! First, you hurt my daughter, then you put me in prison!"

"Marielle is happy now," I retorted. The injustice of his words gave me the courage to talk back. "She loves her new position and her new life. So does Pierre, by the way. They are planning to get married soon. Yes, Marielle is happy. She's happier than she's ever been with you!"

"Liar!" Marielle's father cried.

Instinctively, I threw myself on top of my children, shielding them from him. But he didn't lunge at us. He merely continued to gaze at me, his eyes full of hatred.

"Liar," he repeated after a moment, more calmly. "This is what you do, Christine de Chagny. You lie. You distort reality. You make people believe your stories. Marielle believes you. She believes that her life is better now, better than it was with me. She didn't reply to any of the letters I sent her from prison. You have taken away my daughter, my only child. You have destroyed my life. And for that, I will destroy yours."

"What are you going to do to us?" I breathed. My moment of bravery was over as quickly as it had begun. In all my life, I had never seen such cold fury in anyone's eyes. It scared me more than anything he had said.

"It has already started," he told me, his voice low and menacing. "Don't you remember what Victor and Julian made you do after you gave the pills to your children?" I shook my head mutely. "Yes, the pills can have that effect. It will all come back to you eventually. But I don't want to wait that long. No, I want you to know it right now."

He leaned closer, so close that I could see my own fearful face reflected in his cold eyes.

"They made you write letters," he explained. "Letters to your lovers, telling each of them that the other one is the father of your youngest daughter. You also told them that you would leave Paris with your children for a while. The poor men... After all they did for you... it will hurt them so much. In fact, it will hurt them so much that they will never go looking for you, Christine de Chagny, not even if you don't come back for a year. No one will go looking for you. You belong to me."


	93. Chapter NinetyThree

**Author's Note: **I have been a very bad author lately. I'm sorry that it took me so long to update. Let's just say that life has kept me well and truly busy. I hope that this nice, long chapter will make up for the wait. And to the fans of "Emptiness": I have started the new chapter and hope to finish it by the end of the weekend.

**Chapter**** Ninety-Three**

**December 23****rd**** 1895: Erik**

Early mornings were the best part of the day. Early in the morning, when I had only just woken up and was lying stretched out in my coffin, I could still pretend that the world was all right, that nothing had happened to throw my whole life off-kilter. Well, at least I could pretend for a moment or two. Much too quickly, however, even before I opened my eyes, the realisation that something very bad had indeed happened hit me like a physical blow. Christine and the children were gone, and I didn't know if they would ever come back. It was a piece of truth that I couldn't escape from, no matter how hard I tried.

I was not sure what it was about my home that kept reminding me of that sad fact, or I would have got rid of that object as quickly as possible. After all, it was not as if Christine and the children had ever really lived in my home, at least not for very long. With one happy exception (which I made sure to keep alive in my mind), I had always been alone in my coffin. I had always been alone in my house. So why did it feel so different now?

Somehow, my whole life felt wrong all of a sudden. For the past weeks, every day had felt wrong, from the moment I woke up to the time I finally managed to sink into a fretful, nightmare-ridden sleep. I had tried not to sleep at all, but that had only given me more time for pondering, which was the last thing I needed.

I knew that my endless musing on why Christine had done what she had done was pointless. There had been a time when I had been able to read the girl like an open book. Yet as much as I hated to admit it – that time had passed. I had plenty of ideas, but none of them made any sense. If I had known how to keep myself from pondering, I would have instantly done so. It seemed, however, that the harder I tried to stop, the less I was able to actually do it. Sometimes, I wondered if I'd be doomed to ponder that question for all eternity, like Sisyphus, doomed to roll a rock up a hill, only to have it roll back, forcing him to start all over again. In my darkest hours, I thought that rolling a rock up a hill would actually be better than what I had to go through. At least a rock was something concrete, whereas my questions seemed to change every time I made an attempt to answer them.

I tried to distract myself in many ways. I wandered through the opera, sometimes by day, sometimes by night. I reminded the managers of their duties. If necessary, I gave the chorus girls and stagehands a little fright. Yet not even that managed to cheer me up. On the contrary, it only served to remind me of when I had done all those entertaining things with my little Philippe. Suddenly, after all those years of solitude, being alone didn't feel right anymore. Suddenly, being alone was a sign that something was very wrong with me.

I felt restless and tired at the same time. I'd settle down in the evening with a book, only to jump up minutes later to make a cup of tea, open a window or close it again or perform some other meaningless task. When I tried to do something useful, however, I found myself sleepy and unenthusiastic. Once, I even fell asleep in Box Five in the middle of rehearsal, even though there were several new chorus girls that I was supposed to have an eye on. It was most embarrassing, and I was furious with myself when I realised what had happened, but at least no one else had noticed it.

I seemed to walk through the world in a state of eternal stupor, like the walking dead, people injected with various poisons in far-away countries, which I had read about in one of my many books. I had often been compared to Death himself, which was a comparison I didn't mind, but that new one was irksome, even though I was the only one who knew about it. That was bad enough. After all, in a life as solitary as mine, my opinion of myself was rather important.

In all my life, I had rarely thought of myself as lonely. I had been alone most of the time, but I had felt good about it. Being alone meant no awkward questions and no staring at my face. It was ironic that just now, when thanks to my new mask, hardly anyone ever stared at me anymore, that the people I wanted to be around the most had left me.

In my head, I knew that their leaving had neither happened because of my face nor because of the old or new mask. In my heart, however, it was a different matter. If I had been like other men, I thought bitterly, Christine would not have needed the Vicomte. She'd have married me instead of him, and we'd have been happy together. I'd have been a proper husband, not just an inadequate replacement, brought in when the real husband was not there. Our pretend wedding had been a nice gesture at the time, but these days, I regarded it more critically. Had Christine only told me that Clarille might be my daughter because she had wanted to humour me, just like she had humoured me with the wedding? And why had she decided to tell the truth all of a sudden?

The only time that interrupted my pondering were the hours in which I taught Marcella. Listening to her sing and helping her make the most of her voice was the only thing that made me happy these days. Marcella was a joy to teach. She was friendly and pleasant and always tried her best.

If it had been for me, I'd have given her lesson after lesson, for hours at a time. Yet I knew better than to wear out her beautiful voice. I was aware that if I asked too much too soon, there would not be much left of her voice to work with. I had often seen it happen to promising singers whose teachers had grown too excited about their progress and demanded too much. I was determined that no such thing would happen to my Marcella.

_My_ Marcella?

Yes, that was how I thought of her these days. After all, I had no one else left, and she had no one else, either. I told myself that it was only natural that I was drawn to her. She was less shy around me. I was not sure why that was, but I supposed that she had finally accepted that she didn't have to lie with me in order for me to be friendly to her. At least she had not tried to make any such proposal again, and I was glad about it.

I spent more and more time with the girl, also outside lessons. I went for walks in the park with her, and I took her out for dinner. Once or twice, I had even taken her to the seamstress to buy new clothes for her. Marcella, who was used to mild Italian winters, was ill-equipped for Parisian snow and frost. Of course, there were many winter clothes among those I had once bought for Christine, but I couldn't bear to see Marcella in them. Getting new clothes was much better, especially for a girl like Marcella, whose eyes lit up with happiness about every new piece of clothing. Even new gloves or a warm woollen scarf made her smile merrily. Those were the only smiles that I received these days, and I cherished them.

It was such a visit to the seamstress that we had just come from. We were making our way back from the opera, walking slowly because of the snow. Since she was much shorter than me, Marcella had greater difficulties walking. She was panting slightly, and her face shone red.

It occurred to me that it would have been better to take a coach, even though it was not far to the opera. Yet that was precisely why I had chosen to walk. For maybe the first time in my life, I was reluctant to return to my home. At the moment, the opera only meant endless pondering, and that was something I could do without.

In the last days, it had become steadily worse. The spirit of Christmas had reached the opera. I couldn't even walk down a corridor without overhearing the chorus girls chattering excitedly about going home for the holidays, about the presents they were expecting from their suitors or about the managers' Christmas party, which they were hoping to sneak in to.

Up to a certain point, I could understand the girls' excitement: Even the poorest families saved their money all year long, so that their daughters could return home for a few days. The difference between the mood of those girls and my own was more obvious than ever before, though: I had no home to go to for the holidays, I had no one to expect presents from – or, in fact, to buy presents for – and while the managers had dutifully invited me to their party, I had no intention of going.

"My new dress is so lovely, Signor Erik," Marcella told me. "Thank you so much."

That was one of the reasons why I enjoyed her presence so much: She kept me from pondering. And she never forgot to thank me, even now, when the effort of walking through the snow left her breathless.

I looked down at the parcel over my arm. The seamstress had wrapped the dress in a length of paper, but I could just catch a glimpse of scarlet velvet. It was a real Christmas colour. I was not so sure that it had been a good idea, but Marcella had chosen the colour herself, precisely because it reminded her of Christmas, and since the girl rarely gave her opinion on anything, I had not been able to decline her wish.

"Yes, it is lovely," I agreed. "Are you planning to wear it to the managers' Christmas party?"

It was the first time that I brought up that topic. It had just slipped out because I had thought about it before. I was sure that Marcella knew about the party, though. Everyone knew about the party. I had only just realised that it would take place that very night, before nearly everyone went home for the holidays.

I gave the girl a sideways glance and saw that she was shaking her head, her gaze fixed on her feet.

"Oh no," she replied. "The managers would never invite someone like me. But surely they invited you. Will you go?"

"No," I said shortly. I didn't add that I was not a person who often went to parties, especially not at the moment. I was glad that Marcella never asked for more information than what little I gave voluntarily.

"Oh," the girl made. Nothing more.

Silence fell once more. I didn't know what else to say. The party was an awkward subject, and I wished whole-heartedly I hadn't brought it up. I briefly considered asking Mme. Giry or Meg, who were sure to go, to take Marcella with them, but I was almost certain that she'd say no to such an offer. I had the sneaking suspicion that she was hoping to go with me, though she'd never go as far as to ask me outright. Even if she hadn't been shy, she knew that it wouldn't have been proper for a woman to ask out a man.

Truth to be told, I was glad that she couldn't ask me about it. It was a wish that I would have had to decline, and I didn't want to be confronted with her sad face. After all, it was not her fault that I would have rather gone into a cage full of wild lions than to that Christmas party. Under normal circumstances, I might even have considered attending the party, if only to humour the girl and fluster the managers. Today, however, the mere thought of bad music and too many happy people sent an unpleasant shiver down my spine.

"Signor Erik?" For the second time that day, Marcella's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. "Why are we stopping here?"

I blinked, momentarily dazed. I hadn't noticed that I had stopped walking. I didn't even know why. Looking up at the house at whose gate I had stopped, I swallowed hard. My feet had carried me to the house in which Christine and the children had lived.

No light was burning in the upper floor windows of the building. But then, why should there have been light? Christine was gone. Coming here would not bring her back, nor could it give me any clue as to why she had left. Seeing the house only made everything harder to bear.

_Time to move on, Erik_, I told myself firmly, angrily fighting back tears. _Time to move on._

Abruptly, I turned away from the house and faced Marcella.

"It is nothing," I assured her. "Nothing. I... made a mistake. A wrong turn. The opera is that way."

I took Marcella by the arm and steered her away from the house and down the street, as quickly as it was possible with all the snow. I waited till we had turned the corner and I could no longer see the house. Then, not looking at the girl, I asked,

"Marcella, would you like to accompany me to the managers' Christmas party tonight?"


End file.
